


Misplaced Soil

by stardropdream (orphan_account)



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Hetalia Kink Meme, M/M, Politics, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-23
Updated: 2013-02-23
Packaged: 2017-12-03 07:53:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 27,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/695976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/stardropdream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An argument leaves England and America to reassess and redefine their "special" relationship, all the while England is stuck in a country he doesn't fully understand despite his best efforts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on the kink meme and then reposted to LJ May 30, 2010. 
> 
> The prompt was interactions based off a Cracked article (http://www.cracked.com/article_18406_a-day-in-america-according-to-baffled-foreigner_p1.html). Except in my typical angst-mongering fashion, it went in a completely different direction than that article might suggest.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning started out badly enough, so it was only natural that it would get better only to get even worse.

  
The alarm went off and England felt the beginnings of a throbbing headache. He groaned low in his throat and peeled his face off the pillow, blinking a few times and shooting his hand out to grope blindly for the alarm clock, to switch it off. He hit America’s chest, who grunted and went back to pretending he wasn’t awake. Mumbling words under his breath England pushed himself up and leaned over America’s supine form before switching the alarm off and flopping down onto America. America grunted but otherwise did not move.  
  
England let out a sleepy sigh, resting his face in the crook of the younger nation’s neck and trying to keep his eyes open so he wouldn’t just fall back asleep against America. It worked for a few seconds before he found his eyes drooping and his body sinking into America’s. America shifted his face so he could press his nose into England’s hair, breathing in deeply and sinking into the mattress, sleep already starting to reclaim him.  
  
When America’s arms wrapped around England the older nation was perfectly prepared to forget all his obligations for the day and just fall back asleep in the other man’s arms. But then propriety kicked in, as always, and he pulled away from America with the quietest of sighs. He leaned over America, who was still in the loose strands of sleep and wakefulness. He kissed America’s forehead and rolled away.  
  
America mumbled something about not having to get up for a few more hours and rolled over to stuff his face into the pillow, clinging to it in lieu of England. England smiled at him, flooded with a silent affection he rarely showed America and traced his fingers absently over the bumps of America’s spine. America shivered and sighed sleepily. England pulled himself out of bed, slipping into his bathrobe draped precariously on the chair beside the bed.  
  
Unsteady on his feet, England ran into the door jam. He cursed, loudly, enough that America snorted and rolled over in bed so that the sheets wrapped around his body. England rubbed his forehead, worrying over whether there would be a bruise later in the day or not, and curled into his bathrobe as he shuffled to the kitchen, making a beeline for the kettle. Except, of course, there was to be no electric kettle in America’s house (and England should have known better, or made a point to make sure there was one the night before—but he had been distracted otherwise).  
  
The cheerfully blinking time on the microwave was seven in the morning and England yawned wide enough to feel his jaw crack. Still rubbing at his forehead, he shuffled around America’s kitchen, searching for the ancient looking lump of a teakettle that seemed perfectly pretentious and completely inconvenient.  
  
“Of course, America, land of the futuristic and ridiculous devices like _an auto-fucking-matic apple peeler_ and drive-thru liquor stores has never heard of a damned electric kettle,” England muttered petulantly into the pretentious devil of iron (and if England thought it to be pretentious, there was obviously something wrong, he reasoned). He slammed the little bastard onto the stove and sat back to wait impatiently for the stupid thing to heat his tea so he could have some damned earl grey to start off before having to slump into meetings for seven hours. Already his mood had soured, and he feared what the rest of the day would bring.  
  
Clearly this ancient cauldron had no intention of boiling any time this century and England could already feel the grey hairs growing. Honestly, someone like America should have an electric kettle—if he could find room in his house for all the video game consoles, a blanket with sleeves, and an avocado slicer then couldn’t he also manage to buy something to make England’s life easier whenever he came to stay (which was more often than not)? Obviously not. That would be too convenient, in the end.  
  
England shivered in the early morning cold, wishing he could retreat to the warm bed and America’s arms. He wrapped his bathrobe tighter around his frame and frowned at the stupid tea kettle that refused to boil some water to give him a damned cup of tea, for fuck’s sake. He eyed the coffee machine warily—perhaps it would have been faster to just heat the water that way and not add any coffee to the machine. Of course, it would still probably taste like coffee, but at least it would be quicker.  
  
Of course, as he was pondering this, the teakettle finally whistled.  
  
“Finally,” England muttered and turned the stove off, reaching for the handle of the teakettle. Unlike a sensible electric kettle with a grip that didn’t burn upon contact, however, the ancient little fucker felt just as hot as putting his hand to the fire itself—possibly hotter—and England dropped it loudly on the stove as he shouted out a scream. He tried to muffle before waking up America up, as he was a gentleman, but not before he filled the kitchen with the sound of a banshee’s shriek.  
  
Cursing to high heaven, England flapped his hand around the kitchen in choked misery, feeling as if his fingerprints had been burned off in the process of just trying to drink one measly cup of tea.  
  
“Clearly the universe just wants me to drink coffee,” he hissed as he ran his hand under cold water. He frowned at his palm, red and angry, before retreating to the stove to pour himself a cup of tea, finally. He took up a towel this time, to wrap around the handle. Earl grey wafted through the kitchen and England breathed a small sigh of relief, already feeling his shoulders relax from some of their tension. It was going to be a long day, wasn’t it?  
  
He mopped up some of water that’d spilled over the stove and opened the refrigerator, searching to grab the milk for a small splash of it in his tea. He stared at the array of multiple colors and cartons.  
  
“… One percent of _what?_ ” England whispered as he stared at the container as if expecting the milk to respond to him.  
  
Would it kill this blasted country to just have full-fat, semi-skimmed, and skimmed? Honestly. England eyed the half-and-half warily, unsure how exactly he was meant to decode such a fallacy against the language of milk.  
  
“Common language my arse,” England muttered, grabbing the whole fat milk (this seemed the most reasonable and the only one he could hope to understand) and closing the refrigerator door with a frown. “The world would be a much better place if the idiot would have just kept speaking like I do—proper diction and all. Honestly. And why does he even have that much milk?”  
  
He waited for his tea to steep properly before adding the milk, muttering to himself the entire time. America liked to joke that tea was the only thing England could do right in the kitchen, which usually earned the younger boy a hearty kick in the knee and about a two percent increase of what America liked to call “cockblocking” (and leave it to America to say such stupid, pointless things) later that night in their bed.  
  
Tea finally ready and his hand regaining the sensation of touch, England padded back to the bedroom they shared. He peeked in inside but found America was sitting up in bed, scratching at his hair and yawning. He walked over to him and America blinked to clear his vision and then grinned at England.  
  
“Mornin’ babe,” he greeted.  
  
“Weren’t you going to sleep in?” England asked him, but didn’t sound displeased to see him awake.  
  
“Your bloodcurdling scream woke me up,” America said. “What’d you do?”  
  
“Your country is on a never-ending crusade to turn me into a coffee drinker,” England said with a disdainful sniff, taking a drink of his cup.  
  
America’s grin widened and he grabbed England’s wrist once he strayed too close to the man in the bed, tugging him closer. England rolled his eyes but allowed for this, letting America pull England into his lap, straddling his legs. America wrapped his arms around England’s waist loosely, smiling at him.  
  
England took a drink of his tea, doing his best to look sophisticated despite his position.  
  
“When you have to leave?”  
  
“About an hour,” England said.  
  
“Ah, that’s plenty of time, then,” America said, grin still in place as he stooped his head to kiss at England’s neck. England closed his eyes, snorting softly. America’s hands smoothed over his legs, slipping up under his bathrobe and tracing his fingers over the curve of his hipbones.  
  
England sipped his tea over the top of America’s head.  
  
“… Are you seriously drinking tea while I’m trying to get early morning nookie?” America asked with a quiet laugh.  
  
England snorted and took another sip of his earl grey, and when America looked properly scandalized he pushed his pink out, in a perfectly pretentious way he knew would make America laugh—which he did, loud, booming guffaws before he leaned forward and nipped at England’s pinky.  
  
“You must understand, my darling,” England drawled around the rim of his teacup, “I worked very hard to make this tea, and I’ll be damned if I let it go cold.”  
  
“Yeah, yeah,” America said, clearly not listening anymore as he pushed England’s bathrobe back, kissing at his neck and shoulders. England closed his eyes, sipping his tea and enjoying the feel of America’s chapped lips pillowing over his chilled skin.  
  
“Besides,” England murmured, peering into the quickly emptying teacup. “No one said you weren’t talented enough to get… ‘nookie’ while I drink my tea.”  
  
“I believe that is a challenge,” America said.  
  
“I do believe so as well.”  
  
England went to take another drink but America pushed up and captured England’s mouth instead. His breath was a bit stale, but England didn’t protest, opening his mouth to deepen the kiss.  
  
“You taste like your tea,” America pointed out when they pulled away, licking his lips.  
  
“And you taste like something crawled into your mouth last night and died,” England drawled.  
  
“You already know what was in my mouth last night, babe,” America said with a self-satisfied little grin.  
  
England took it upon himself to wipe that smile off his face—of course, his means of doing so where to kiss him senseless which in the end probably only increased America’s feelings of triumph. But it was just as well as England rather enjoyed it, too. He set his teacup down so he could tangle both his hands in America’s hair, tilting his head to swallows his breath, shivering when America’s hands pushed England’s bathrobe away. Callused fingers traced the scars lining along England’s body and England moaned quietly against America’s mouth, and he felt the rumbling deep in America’s chest filter into England’s own heart and knew the boy was laughing.  
  
“Yes, I do suppose I do,” England murmured when they pulled away. America smiled up at him, softer now, and England smoothed the pad of his thumb over the kiss-swollen bottom lip. America parted his lips slightly and England’s thumb brushed across the flats of America’s teeth. England felt the air in America’s lungs still as England pressed close, kissing at the corner of America’s mouth and migrating inward, nibbling and sucking the bottom lip into his mouth, smoothing over the chapped skin with his tongue.  
  
“England,” he heard America breathe against his mouth. England smiled and rolled off America, dragging the boy up over him. America willingly went, hands stumbling over the sheets of their bed to smooth over England’s exposed skin.  
  
“Be quick about it, I have an appointment in about an hour and I still need to get ready,” England invited, arms wrapped loosely around America’s neck.  
  
America’s smile burst across his face, infectious, and he let out a small bark of laughter before ducking his head, kissing at England’s chest, lips passing over the scars and dips of his body. Hands made quick work of the bathrobe and England pulled the sheets away so their bodies were pressed flush together, skin to skin. England turned his face to the side, regarded his teacup with some quiet amusement before America’s hands made quick work of lodging England’s mind elsewhere, with a quiet gasp.  
  
“My dear,” England reminded, glancing at the clock, hands in America’s hair.  
  
America glanced up at him from where he was kissing around England’s belly button, one hand pumping England’s cock until it was plump and hard in his grip. His blue eyes flickered to the alarm clock, where the green lights mocked him. He lowered his eyes to his current task, kissing at England’s hipbones, down over his thigh as his hand groped blindly for the drawer in the bedside table, and pulled out the container of lube.  
  
“I’ll take my time tonight,” America promised.  
  
“Of course, my darling,” England said with a sigh, fingers stroking America’s neck and shoulders and the space between shoulder blades as America squeezed enough lube onto his fingers, rubbing them together and pressing his coated fingers against England’s entrance.  
  
All the while he peppered kisses along England’s shaking thighs, his knees, his hips, his belly, tongue swirling circularly around his belly button. England sighed, tilting his head back and closing his eyes, focusing on the touch and feel of America over him, around him, beside him. His breath hitched as the first finger slid inside him, followed shortly thereafter by a second. He needed time to adjust, but he swiveled his hips and America spread and hooked his fingers inside England.  
  
He clenched his eyes shut tight enough to see spots as America pushed into him, pushing and pulling and filling him—stretching him until he felt he couldn’t stretch anymore and then continuing to fill the space inside him. His eyes fluttered opened and America was staring down at him holding still save for the slightest tremble in his shoulders as he held himself up over England, inside him, body tensed. Their eyes locked and England smiled at him, lifting his hand to brush his fingers over his cheekbone and jaw line, then cupping his face, stroking one thin eyebrow above the bright blue eyes squinting down at him.  
  
“Move,” England invited.  
  
America needed no more invitation and pushed into him, gripping England’s hips until England knew that there would be fingerprint sized bruises scattered across the skin over his hips. America pounded into him, rocking the bed even as he tried to restrain himself. But soon the friction mounted, hardened America’s resolve, and he pushed in and out of England with abandon. England clenched the bed sheets, trying to anchor himself as he rocked up to meet America’s thrusts. It was moments like these that sometimes America would just lose himself, think of only himself, and England was used to it. His hips ached and his body ached in pleasure with the undercurrent of pain. His eyes tried to capture America’s, but America’s eyes were clenched shut.  
  
Soon enough, America’s frenzied pounding stopped and America seized up, coming with a quiet shout as warmth spread inside of England. America jerked his hips, emptying himself inside of England and England sighed, watching the tension ease from America as he slumped, kissing at England’s collarbone with gentle precision.  
  
Then, after a moment, he remembered himself and grasped his large hand around England’s cock, pumping him until he came, hissing out America’s name as his seed pushed out and onto his stomach. America, soft now, slipped out of England but England could still feel the heat inside him.  
  
“You need a shower,” America said and England could hear the grin in his voice.  
  
England blinked his eyes open and he patted a balled fist against America’s shoulder. “That’s why I told you to move quickly.”  
  
“Was it good?” America asked, lopsided grin and all.  
  
England snorted. “You always ask me.”  
  
“Well, yeah.”  
  
England sat up, indiscreetly brushing his fingertips over where America had gripped him so tightly, already knowing where the bruises would appear. Then he leaned forward, cupped America’s chin, and kissed him soundly on the mouth.  
  
“It was good,” England said as he pulled back. “Now get off me, I need to shower.”  
  
“Kay,” America said with a tiny groan as he flopped back down onto the bed, face burying into the pillow. “Don’t take all the hot water.”  
  
“Never,” England promised, fingers tracing the bumps of America’s spine again before retreating to take a shower. More time had passed than he’d wanted and he showered quickly, shaved, and brushed his teeth with such economy that it hardly took time at all, to make up for his leisurely activities. “It’s all yours,” he said about a quarter of an hour later, watching America lift his head from the pillow, “Hot water and all.”  
  
“Great,” America said with a grin and rolled out of bed, padding towards the bathroom.  
  
“Remember mouthwash,” England called over his shoulder, toweling himself off. His response was the click of the lock on the door as it shut. England rolled his eyes, smiling fondly to nothing as he retreated to the other side of the room to collect his clothing.  
  
Of course ten minutes of searching around for his clothing left England almost as naked as he’d been when he’d left the shower in the first place. He frowned, arms crossed, and looking around the room hopelessly, as if half expecting his clothing to come trotting out and come to him. (It wouldn’t be the first time, of course—but that was a strange New Years with his magical friends and a bit too much beer.)  
  
Damn it all, he had a meeting soon. He couldn’t afford to stand around like an idiot like this—that was supposed to be America’s job. He tried, vainly, to locate the rest of his suit. The sound of running water in the bathroom did little to reassure his sense of time, and he glanced at the clock irritably.  
  
“For fuck’s sake,” he muttered to no one, in possession of only his undergarments and one stale and sad looking sock. He continued frowning at nothing and then stared at America’s clothing with the deep consideration of just taking his clothing—they were roughly the same size, America understandably a bit bulkier (fatter) and the barest of centimeters taller, after all. He was thinking this over when he heard the water shut off. He heard the door open behind him as he bent over to inspect under the bed, wondering if perhaps he’d lost some clothing below the bedding.  
  
He felt America’s hand graze over his backside as he passed, fingers brushing over him that left England to shiver (until he stubbornly suppressed such an action). England felt his face heat up and he tried to straighten, though not before bumping his head against the bed and grumbling out obscenities.  
  
“Have you seen my trousers?” he asked, face red and rubbing at the back of his head absently, feeling for a bump.  
  
“You mean pants?” America asked, laughing, as he retreated towards the closet, water dripping down his body.  
  
“No, I’m wearing my pants already—you just inspected them yourself evidently,” England grumbled with a roll of his eyes. “And that joke wasn’t funny the first time you used it, America, and it isn’t funny now.”  
  
“I think it’s hilarious.”  
  
“Of course you do.”  
  
“But no, I haven’t seen your—trousers. Why would I?”  
  
“Because you flung them off me last night,” England grumbled to the discarded sock he unearthed from below the bed, the mate to his other sorry-looking sock. He felt his frown deepen, etching lines in his face.  
  
“I wasn’t paying attention to your clothes last night, England, once I got ‘em off,” America said, with that lewd little grin of his as he retreated to the closet and began pulling out his own clothing for the day.  
  
“Oh hush,” England grumbled. “Hand me a vest while you’re in there, at the very least.”  
  
“Really? ‘Kay. Here ya go,” America called, tossing him an article of clothing.  
  
England stared at it and frowned. “My vest, America, not my waistcoat.”  
  
“That’s not a waistcoat—that’s a vest.”  
  
“No, I mean—what you’re wearing now, I want that,” England said and rubbed his forehead as America pulled some of his clothes on, the towel dropping down to the floor, forgotten.  
  
“What, you mean an undershirt?” America asked, inviting England to entertain the thought of spontaneously punching him right in his shit-eating grin.  
  
“No, you imbecile, I mean a vest.” England rolled his eyes upward. “America, stop with these jokes at once.”  
  
“Your face is a joke,” America said, brilliantly so, but tossed England his demanded clothing with a snicker. As he pulled on his own clothing, America hummed quietly to himself, some patriotic song he never tired of. “Oh—hey, found your pants.”  
  
He ducked behind the armchair beside the bed and pulled them out from where he’d thrown them unceremoniously the night before. He tossed them now to England who caught them and frowned at them. He pulled them on, pleased to see that they weren’t horribly wrinkled. He smoothed his hands over his thighs, regardless, with a small little nod.  
  
“Thank you,” he said, and meant it.  
  
“Mhm,” America hummed, shrugging on a button-on and working at the buttons.  
  
England continued putzing around the room, searching for the discarded clothing from the night before and praying that they weren’t horribly wrinkled. He exhumed his neglected dress shirt from underneath a throw pillow, trying to smooth out the wrinkles and glancing at the clock and knowing he would never have enough time to do proper ironing before he would have to leave.  
  
“You can wear mine, if ya want,” America called over his shoulder as he examined his ties, trying to pick the one he wanted to wear for the day.  
  
“You’ve a bit more girth than I do, America,” England said, gently.  
  
“Whatever, if you’re wearing your jacket it’s not like anybody’s gonna notice,” America said, and pulled a shirt down off a hanger, holding it out to him. “Come on, don’t make me get it on you myself. I’m much more talented at getting things off you.”  
  
“Yes, yes, you perfectly lewd creature,” England said with a roll of his eyes, walking forward to take the proffered shirt. He took America’s hand before he could pull it back and pressed a sloppy kiss to his knuckles. “Thank you, darling.”  
  
“Yeah, yeah,” America said, and England delighted in the way his face seemed to heat up with pleasure at the sentiment. He quickly turned away, pulling out a red tie. “Yours is on the lampshade.”  
  
“Ah, so it is,” England said when he turned and saw his paisley tie draped forlornly over the lamp. He shrugged into America’s shirt and pulled the tie from its haphazard position, slipping it around his collar and working on a proper knot.  
  
Fully dressed now, England fluffed up the pillows and pulled the sheets and blankets back to their proper positions, ignoring America’s quiet snort of amusement at the action. He felt more than heard America come up behind him, and felt hands touch his hips, where the bruises were already forming, keeping his touch light in a silent apology America never actually spoke but England knew was there.  
  
England lifted a hand behind him to cup America’s cheek, thumb smoothing over his skin and then pausing. “Ah,” he said quietly, turning his head to look up at the other nation. “You missed a spot shaving.”  
  
“Huh? I did?” America asked, lifting his hand to touch where England’s fingers were. “Ah, shit.”  
  
America pulled away, retreating to the bathroom. England followed after him, smiling despite himself and arms crossed. He leaned against the doorframe as America examined his reflection, hand smoothing over his cheek before moving to get the small patch of shadow he’d managed to miss before.  
  
“So what’s your meeting about today, anyway?” America asked his reflection, glasses slipping down over his nose as he concentrated, scrunching up his face a little and trying to stretch the skin as smoothly as possible.  
  
“Oh,” England said quietly, and hesitated for a half a moment. He cleared his throat. “Mostly just policy complications and whatnot.”  
  
“‘Bout what?” America asked, straightening now and inspecting the rest of his face for any part of his face he might have missed before, razor poised precariously in two fingers as he did so. England focused on how it wiggled with America’s tiny movements.  
  
“The war,” England said, honestly.  
  
America’s eyes flickered to him. Their gazes locked for a moment and it seemed that America saw what England wasn’t saying.  
  
“Yeah?” he asked, and almost sounded defensive.  
  
England shrugged one shoulder, stepping further into the bathroom to arrange the toothbrushes and toothpaste on the sink side, eyes down and refusing to look at America. He couldn’t understand why he was hesitating—it was his own decisions, after all. But if he was honest with himself he’d know why he was being evasive about this topic at all.  
  
“My administration is interesting in discovering a way to decrease our presence, if at all possible.”  
  
He waited for the reaction—and it was almost instantaneous.  
  
America’s razor dropped down into the sink and the boy widened his eyes, looking betrayed—and how England hated to see that look on the boy’s face, more than anything. “Wait, wait, wait—no! You can’t do that, England!”  
  
“I beg your pardon, but I don’t think you can tell me what it is that I can and cannot do.” England didn’t lift his eyes, finished arranging the things on the side of the sink and went to arrange them again, making sure everything was perfectly lined up. All the while, he avoided America’s eyes, knowing that America was staring at him desperately.  
  
“You’re probably like one of the only big presences I’ve got left over there—!” America protested.  
  
“I know, that’s just it, America,” England said calmly, trying to pacify the boy before he went ballistic or at the very least superior on him.  
  
“But you can’t—”  
  
“I can,” England said, “and if my administration has any say in it, I will.”  
  
“But I mean… I don’t really have anyone else there, you know that! I mean, I’ve got a couple of Canada and Germany’s guys, but it’s really you who—look, you can’t just pull out now. You—I… I _need_ you, England.”  
  
England frowned as he adjusted his tie, straightening his hair in the mirror and peering over the shoulder in his reflection to capture America’s eyes. He sighed and had to look away. He took a step away from the mirror, moving to leave the bathroom.  
  
“I’m sorry, America. But I have to do what’s right for my country and I—”  
  
America pushed his hand against the doorframe, using his bulk to keep England inside the bathroom, blocking England’s getaway. England’s eyebrows furrowed, but America looked rather annoyed now, as opposed to betrayed. Perhaps still a little betrayed. But England held firm, and tried to step around the arm. America blocked him.  
  
“England,” he said, stressing the name. England frowned at him.  
  
“Stop this at once, I need to get to my meeting.”  
  
“If you go there, then you can’t make plans to leave me alone in that fucking desert, so I’m not leaving you leave this bathroom,” America said firmly.  
  
“You’re being ridiculous, America,” England said. “You must understand—it’s a trial on my country and I—”  
  
“What do you mean it’s a ‘trial’? You don’t think it’s a pain in the ass for me, too? If you leave now then what the fuck am I supposed to do?”  
  
“That isn’t really my problem, America—”  
  
“But—dude! You can’t do this to me!” America insisted, still not moving from the doorway. “You and me—we’re a team. The Special Relationship!”  
  
England scoffed, not looking at him. “Oh, yes. Of course.”  
  
“You and I—we gotta look out for each other.”  
  
“Just like you look out for me?” England snapped back. “Or does the Special Relationship only apply when you can get something from it?”  
  
“What—”  
  
“America,” England said gravely, “ _Move._ I need to get to my meeting.”  
  
“I won’t let you.”  
  
“Stop telling me what I can and cannot do,” England shouted, and tried to shove him aside. He got America to lurch slightly from the doorway before the younger nation remembered himself and stiffened up, remaining unmovable in the doorway. England inhaled sharply. “Do you even realize what people call me, in regards to our supposed special relationship, America?”  
  
“Uh… awesome?” America guessed.  
  
England shook his head. “Your pet poodle.”  
  
And America had the gall to snort a soft puff of laughter. England’s expression darkened and he dropped his hands away. They curled into fists.  
  
“Fuck you.”  
  
“Aww, babe come on, you know that’s totally ridiculous. I don’t even like poodles.”  
  
England stared at him, and felt one eyebrow twitch.  
  
“You—fuck you.” He stared at him, wide-eyed. “Do you even understand—”  
  
“Anyway,” America said with a shake of his head, “You can’t leave the wars. I won’t let you.”  
  
“You think you can tell me what to do?”  
  
“Uh, yeah,” America said. “Come on. Don’t look at me like that. We’re allies—it’d be a total dick move to leave now. You’re like the only one who’s stayed with me all this time.”  
  
“Yes, and allowed for you to do as you pleased without ever seriously protesting and—”  
  
“Look, things’re fine the way they are.”  
  
“Easy for you to say!” England shouted, choked slightly. “Maybe I should have done something instead of just letting myself and my administration act as your little lapdog and your constant booty call whenever the fuck you damned well pleased! Maybe if we hadn’t been so busy sucking your precious dick my country wouldn’t be in such a mess—if we’d just refused and ignored your selfish, fucked up whims you would have been alone and we really could have just fucking isolated you from doing stupid things!”  
  
America stared at him and didn’t shoot back with a lofty comeback as England had half expected. Instead he just stared at England a moment, his face contorted in rage, before he turned his face away.  
  
“Oh.”  
  
It was in that moment that England knew he’d said too much.  
  
“It’d be much better if my administrations could focus on Europe than on being your little sidekick, at your whim to be played with,” England said and secretly hated himself for saying even _more_ when he didn’t _need to._ But he couldn’t stop himself from talking, he couldn’t let America win.  
  
America didn’t say anything right away, his expression darkened. The earlier laughter was completely gone, and England silently mourned the course of the morning had taken—this hadn’t been what he’d wanted at all. His heart pounded.  
  
“Give me back my shirt,” America said suddenly, whipping his hands out and shoving England’s jacket off. England gave a shout of protest but America ignored him, nearly ripping the jacket off and fingers fumbling for England’s buttons. He shoved the fabric off England, leaving him with just the tie and his undershirt.  
  
America turned on his heel, holding his shirt, and stomped away, leaving England alone in the bathroom.  
  
What followed was a tense, morose silence. England glanced wearily at the clock and knew he’d be late. He picked up his wrinkled shirt and shrugged into it, undoing his tie to redo the knot around his new shirt. He picked up the jacket America had discarded so carelessly. He glanced at the other nation’s back, who stood at the window, arms crossed and head bowed. England wondered if he should say sorry but thought better of it—  
  
Why should he be the one to apologize when the idiot refused to acknowledge the disparity in their two country’s relationship? It made no sense.  
  
As if sensing England’s gaze on him, America turned his head and glared at England. England glared back, straightening his tie and turning his face away.  
  
“Well then,” he said, primly, “I’ll take my leave.”  
  
“Why don’t you just stab me in the back and be done with it already, huh?” America asked. “It’d be faster.”  
  
“Shut the fuck up, you twit,” England snapped. “I’m sure you’ll be able to carry on just as _well_ as you have been in Iraq and Afghanistan without your little poodle to kick around.”  
  
“Yeah, it’s not like you’re ever any help _anyway_ ,” America snapped back, arms crossed still as he turned to face England fully. “I don’t know how I’ll possibly survive without you—what was it? Sucking my ‘precious dick’, or whatever. Oh and by the way?”  
  
“What?” England was almost afraid to ask.  
  
“You give bad head, anyway.”  
  
“Oh—!” England began, before the words sank in and he looked taken aback. That really hadn’t been the insult he’d expected.  
  
America slanted his eyes away, and England recognized in the back of his mind that America really was upset but—but so was England. He wouldn’t apologize, he wouldn’t—that’d be admitting that England was wrong when he _wasn’t._ America was a selfish boy, but when he looked like that—  
  
England couldn’t, didn’t want to fight him. Not really. They fought all the time, especially when England came to stay with America or vice versa. It was something reflected in their own administrations, as well, and wouldn’t be the first time they’d fought. But it never left England feeling as if he might cry, or made America look as if he was about ready to do the same.  
  
“My dear—”  
  
“Don’t fucking call me that,” America snapped. “I’m not yours—I haven’t been yours for two hundred years and I’m never gonna be your anything. So stop it, it’s annoying.”  
  
“I—” England began.  
  
“So get outta here. You clearly just want to isolate me anyway, right? Fuck you.”  
  
“That isn’t what this is about—”  
  
“I don’t care. Try not to get run over by a car out there, you asshole.”  
  
England ruffled up. Fine then. If America wanted to be that, England could play that game. He sneered at him, whipped his head away and grumbled low under his breath.  
  
“Fine,” England snapped. “Heaven knows I can’t stand being under the same roof as you right now—”  
  
“Then leave!” America shouted.  
  
England stomped from the room and half-expected, half-hoped, that America would follow him. But he didn’t. He didn’t.  
  
England ducked his head, fought back the ridiculous urge to cry or to turn around and apologize truly this time. Instead he glanced over at the kitchen as he stomped his way to the front door. He opened the door and before shutting it with a loud slam he shouted, glad his voice didn’t crack:  
  
“And for fuck’s sake, buy an electric kettle!”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> England spends the rest of his day alone.

Fighting was normal in a healthy relationship—England knew that. It was impossible for someone like him to not know it—his closest relations operated on fighting, mostly, or at least thinly veiled threats, in the case of a certain French frog. Fighting was healthy. No one was perfect. But England also knew that it probably wasn’t healthy to go from one extreme to the other in his relationship with America: wanting to coddle him one moment and then wanting to smash the little bastard’s face in the next. Probably, now that England thought about it, the sheer number of times England wanted to smash America’s face in was probably in of itself unhealthy.   
  
He stomped outside, storming from the apartment building with all the self-righteous rage and adrenaline he could muster. His great stomping led him, of course, to the dramatic location of his bus stop. Waiting for the bus left England with plenty of time to fester his rage (he could have taken the limousine, but if he was going to talk about global warming, he may as well practice what he preached). And he fully intended to fester his rage, thinking of creative ways to maim and otherwise inconvenience America. This plan was perfect. Except within fifteen minutes he was sitting on a bus, slumped against the window and muttering obscenities to himself and fighting the ridiculous urge to cry. Cars honked outside and he watched indifferently as pedestrians dove for safety in the face of the onslaught of city buses, cars, and bicyclists. England muttered curses under his breath and his fellow bus patrons gave him slightly deranged looks, undoubtedly trying to determine whether England really was from England (damn America and his citizen’s obsessions with his accent—it wasn’t that damned exotic, honestly) and, more importantly, whether he was a crazy person.   
  
He made it to his meeting only a few minutes late, but it seemed the rest of his men were running behind schedule regardless, so it left England a few precious moments to boil some water (once again with a cauldron of a kettle, what was with the lack of electric kettles? Surely they existed) and make himself a soothing cup of chamomile tea. Except it wasn’t very soothing and he left the teabag in for too long, leaving the tea to taste bitter and unpleasant. England drank it anyway.   
  
“Are you alright, sir?” one of his aides asked later, peering at his unpressed pants, his wrinkled shirt, and the slightly lopsided tie.   
  
England stared at him for a long moment before sighing. “I’m quite alright.”   
  
Possibly embarrassed, the aide nodded and didn’t pressed the issue. England remained sitting, letting the men around him drone on and feeling all the words rush over his head. His fingers traced the lip of his teacup and felt the dread pooling in his stomach, ushered in by the bitter taste of chamomile. He was utterly defeated.   
  
“Sir,” another aide said after a break in the meeting. England glanced at him and then at the clock—two hours had passed but England hadn’t noticed any time moving, nor could he remember what anyone had spoken about for the past two hours. “Sir,” his aide said again and England’s attention flickered back. “Sir, do you have the papers?”  
  
“The what?” England asked and then the words registered and he shook his head. “Oh, yes, of course. Of course, they’re right here…”  
  
He opened his briefcase and stared. And then stared longer. And then continued to stare, as if continuing to stare would mean that the papers would magically appear in his briefcase, as they should be, and everything would be just as it was meant to be.  
  
But no, in England’s mind eye, he could see the papers sitting in their silly manila folder precariously and perfectly innocently on the kitchen table in America’s apartment.   
  
“Oh,” England said softly.   
  
“Sir?” asked the aide.  
  
England shook his head. “Fuck.”  
  
The aide looked startled, reeling back at the sudden curse and blinking owlishly at England, who muttered a few more profanities.  
  
“God damn it.” England sighed. “I left them behind.”   
  
He continued to spout out some blasphemy towards God before he shook his head with a sigh, pressing a hand to his face.   
  
“I’m distracted today.”  
  
“Er… yes,” the aide agreed. He shuffled the papers he did hold. “Well… where you’re staying isn’t too far from here, is it? If we take our lunch break now, you can pop over and pick the papers up, can’t you?”   
  
The other aides in the room agreed, with small nods and sympathetic looks towards England, who did indeed look incredibly out of it and flustered, unprofessional in his wrinkled suit and his morose expressions. England nodded his agreement, clipped his briefcase shut, turned on his heel, and left the building to go back, albeit hesitantly, towards he apartment. Not that America would be there—he would have left for his meeting over an hour ago.   
  
The ride back on the city bus was just as tense as before, only England couldn’t shake the feeling of disgust, and the bile rising in his throat. The city smelled like sour milk and it left England to mutter more obscenities about color-coded milk cartons of two percent and one percent and sixty-eight percent or whatever stupid coding system America used to label his milk. America, America—  
  
The bus stopped at his stop and England remembered to scramble off the bus in time before he was whisked away down more city blocks in the wrong direction. He straightened his tie, smoothed down his hair—and wondered why he was making himself presentable for something that would take less than a minute. He knew exactly where the papers were, exactly where he needed to go and how to get back. He’d spend more time waiting for the bus than he would capturing the papers and wrangling them into his briefcase.  
  
So of course America was there when England opened the door.  
  
They stared at each other in surprise, England’s hand still on the door handle. When he saw another body he thought perhaps he’d walked right into the wrong room and was about to shut the door with a quick apology before green eyes locked with the baby blue ones, staring at him in wide-eyed surprise.  
  
And then the tense silence followed.   
  
“Ba—England.” That was America’s voice, all right, saturated with surprise.   
  
“Bengland?” England repeated, slightly dazed. He stepped into the apartment, closing the door behind him.  
  
America puffed up and looked away. “ _Yeah._ I added a B to your name.”  
  
“Oh?”  
  
“The B’s for Bitch.” America turned away completely now, crossing his arms.   
  
“Oh,” England muttered. “Of course.”   
  
Of course it would come down to something like this. England felt the anger return full-force, and hated that he’d actually felt remorseful earlier in the day. America didn’t deserve any sympathy—the idiot always expected everything to be handed to him on a silver platter and—  
  
England was too tired to think about it, so he sighed and walked towards the kitchen. “What are you still doing here?”  
  
“Boss thought I looked like I needed the day off,” America said, still not looking at England. England tried not to think about why it was that America’s boss would give the boy the day off, just how one looked like they needed it… or why America looked that way. He made a beeline for the manila folder waiting for him. America called after him, “What the hell are you doing here?”  
  
“Forgot these,” England said, snatching up the papers and waving it over his shoulder before clicking open his briefcase and slipping the papers inside.   
  
“Oh, the details for how you’re going to just abandon me?”  
  
“Can we not talk about this, please?” England said with a sigh. “And for your information, that is _not_ what these papers are for.”  
  
“Whatever, England.”   
  
“America,” England said calmly, closing his briefcase and straightening, already moving towards the front door again. “Stop behaving like a child.”  
  
“Only if you stop behaving like a Grade A Douchebag,” America protested, in what was, naturally, an incredibly childish manner.  
  
England rolled his eyes, slipped his fingers through his hair, and sighed. “I’m not. If you would just _think_ for once in your life, you would realize—”  
  
“I thought you were here to apologize,” America admitted, crossing his arms and trying to look nonchalant as he leaned against the wall, hip jutted out slightly.  
  
England felt his entire body twitch. “Me?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“If anyone’s to apologize, it’ll be you,” England snapped, staring at the man he inexplicably loved. (Really, England had to wonder just how much of a masochist he was.)   
  
“Yeah right.”  
  
“See, it’s that stubborn nature of yours that makes you so unbearable.”   
  
“Fuck you!”  
  
“America,” England said, tense, looking desperately at his feet before lifting his gaze and staring at America—angry, so angry, but trying so hard to get him to understand. “America, listen to me—”  
  
America snorted.  
  
England’s brow furrowed. “How it is now—it isn’t _equal._ Think about it. Just _think._ ”   
  
“Whatever,” America said. “You got your papers. Leave me alone. I’m going to go kill some commies.”  
  
And with that, America stalked away, undoubtedly to go play one of his video games. England lowered his eyes and closed the door behind him.   
  
  
\---  
  
  
The rest of the meetings went on without much incident. It was clear that England’s mind was elsewhere, so the men working around him did their best to work around the issues and present the facts. England stared vacantly at the papers, at the powerpoint slides. It wasn’t clear whether anything even made it into his consciousness. He stayed, hunched slightly, hand in his chin and staring morosely at the table—ignoring his heart.  
  
“Perhaps it’s foggy in London,” he heard one of his aides whisper and England closed his eyes, letting them believe that was the reason. As if the weather could describe his feelings. As if fog was the reason for anything. It was sunny in London today, but there was smog. But that didn’t seem to register in England’s heart.  
  
When they broke for a few minutes, for coffee and the washroom, England spent his time at the window, looking out over the American cityscape, his eyes hooded and his mind elsewhere. He couldn’t fight back the things in his heart, the things he knew would never be but that he could not help but shake, something where he woke up in the morning and it existed.   
  
Time could take its toll on the best of them, and England felt far too old despite looking so young. And being with America, who was infinitely younger in both body and spirit left him to feel a bit like a setting sun. Or just something that was falling—something easily forgotten, discarded, and replaced.   
  
He knew that America cared—it was impossible to forget the way those blue eyes looked at him as he bent over England (impossible baby blue). Impossible to forget the soft touch of hands smoothing over the bruises he left (apologetic, trying so hard to curb his strength), impossible to forget the soft touch of his lips to his (for good luck, for good-bye, for hello again). Impossible to forget those moments when he bent his laws for him, when he found a way to always fly back to him even when his people said no (soft hands wrapping bandages around him, quiet lips brushing over his sweating forehead, the softly whispered words that America was always too proud to admit to saying the next morning…).   
  
“Fuck,” he whispered as he felt tears prickling at the back of his eyes.   
  
He forced himself to remember his faults, also impossible to forget—  
  
Obnoxious, self-centered, dismissive, entitled…   
  
Blue eyes that seemed to light up whenever they saw him, a smile only for him, fingers lacing together between the sheets, the honeyed, soured taste of a kiss in the morning, the smell of coffee spilling onto pillowcases…  
  
Forgetful, dismissive, entitled, taking advantage as he saw fit, poking his nose into others business, throwing fits when others didn’t do what he wanted—  
  
Keeping tea in the cupboard for him, buying union jack boxers just to see England’s face when he finally took his clothes off, resting quietly in his lap as England did his needlework—  
  
“ _Fuck,_ ” England hissed.   
  
Focus, focus—  
  
Always making fun of him on July fourth, always leaving him to drink alone, demanding so much from him and his people, knowing nothing about his own culture, butchering the English language, pollution, hypocrisy, flirting with other nations…  
  
Laughing, laughing, laughing in his ear as England straddled him, drinking his tea. Laughing, so softly, fingers curled in his hair, face split into a smile just for him—  
  
 _Fuck._   
  
  
\---  
  
  
The rest of the meetings ran on in such a manner, with England’s mind visibly elsewhere. No one pressed him on the issues, and England offered up no excuses, though he tried a few times to focus in on the conversation, only to be hit with a sense of revulsion and withdraw again—listening to politics was too tiring, too tiring when all his mind picked up on was ‘America this’ and ‘America that.’   
  
At the end of the day, he stayed in the executive bathroom for a long while, staring at himself in the mirror, pausing occasionally to wash his face, hands pressed against his face as if trying to recollect some dignity and, quite possibly, sanity.  
  
“Maybe I should just apologize,” he told his reflection, dripping with water from the facet. His reflection stared back at him.  
  
He was far too tired. England lowered his gaze, taking up a towel and wiping his hands absently, staring down at the sink and the counter, tracing the lines of the tiles. He sighed. He sighed twice.   
  
“No,” he said faintly, “Don’t be ridiculous.”  
  
It would be better if neither of them were dependent on the other. In the grand scheme of things, this was quite possibly a blessing in disguise. It would be bad to be on the United States’ bad side, but at the same time separating himself from the country would give him a better footing in European matters, instead of actively dismissed as the lapdog. England snorted quietly to himself—who would have believed that the once great British Empire would be accused of being subordinate to an upstart little colony? The irony was not lost on England, though he didn’t find it particularly entertaining or amusing.   
  
“If I just explain the situation to him…” England murmured. “If he’d just listen…”   
  
He curled his fingers along the edge of the sink and leaned forward, resting his forehead against the cool surface of the glass. His eyes hurt from reading too much—reading and no comprehension.   
  
“I’ll make him dinner,” he decided. “I’ll explain.”  
  
  
\---  
  
  
The problem with making dinner, of course, was that England was very much alone in the world. He stood helplessly in an aisle, staring at all the brands he didn’t even recognize. Under normal circumstances, when he visited America, the boy would do the grocery shopping. He’d occasionally come back with British brand names that England recognized, though England couldn’t discern where the hell the boy found them from (he was lost in a foreign grocery store, staring at brand names and products he couldn’t recognize if he tried). With a growing sense of desperation, he almost debated calling America’s apartment and demanding help. But he refused to allow such a thing to happen.  
  
Instead, he stared at a can of kidney beans with utmost concentration that he knew if the can of beans had any consciousness it would just wither and die. As such, it was just a can and England was just staring at it rather harshly in the center of a grocery store aisle. He shifted his gaze between one can and the other, lost as to determine which would be better. One was a dollar more, and that probably meant it was higher quality, but was the cheaper one really so terrible?  
  
He stared at the prices. He stared a very long time.   
  
He stared at the size. He stared a very long time.  
  
“Why doesn’t this idiot use the metric system?” England muttered to himself, staring desperately. “I’ve visited this damn country for years and I still don’t understand it. I don’t think even _he_ understands it.”   
  
The cans didn’t answer him, which was just as well.  
  
England reached into his pocket, digging around for the right amount of money, to make sure he had enough to even purchase a can of kidney beans—he wasn’t even sure what he’d make for America once he returned to the apartment, or even if America would want anything he’d make, but damned if it wasn’t going to have kidney beans in it.   
  
“… The five cent piece is probably the smallest size, right?” he asked the can of kidney beans, inspecting the small silver coin with utmost distaste. It said ‘one dime’ on it, which was hardly any help for England. “The dime is ten cents, isn’t it?”   
  
He stared.  
  
He dug around in his pocket and pulled out a nickel. That one, thankfully, actually said it was five cents.   
  
“That doesn’t even make any fucking sense,” England muttered to the coins in his hand, who glittered up at him under the harsh fluorescent light above him. “Why is the smallest coin worth more than the five cent piece? And why doesn’t the stupid thing even say it’s worth ten cents!”   
  
He realized, belatedly, that he was talking to coins, and had been talking to cans of beans earlier. But it wouldn’t be the strangest thing that England had ever done, at least according to America. England smiled bitterly. No, probably America would make some snide comment that at least this time he could _see_ the weird things that England was talking to. And then he’d probably run away before England could explain the fairies and his unicorn were very much real, breathing creatures.   
  
“… At least he uses the decimal system,” England conceded, hanging his head. Perhaps he was too hard on America.   
  
But then again…  
  
He really needed to stop thinking.   
  
“Come now,” he said, grabbing the cheaper can of kidney beans off the shelf and throwing it into his basket. “Stiff upper lip.”  
  
He turned to keep walking and found a hapless woman staring at him with wide eyes, holding a can of pineapples. It seemed his British accent was enough to send her into a coma, and possibly the British phrase hadn’t done much for her psyche. Flushing, England excused himself and quickly walked away—if there was one thing he would never get used to it, it was American citizens’ fascination with his accent.   
  
“You’d think if they were so enamored by it, they’d attempt to know more about the culture beyond tea and the Beatles.”  
  
America, too, always seemed rather charmed by the accent. Especially if it was whispered words in the early morning, underneath the sheets—dirty words that would make England blush afterward and—  
  
He really, _really_ needed to stop thinking.   
  
He moved slowly down the aisles, collecting a few things—he couldn’t find anything remotely typical in a British store, but he was used to such things—and wandered towards the produce section. He stood there silently a moment, watching various other store patrons. Three for a dollar—that was a deal, wasn’t it? Was two dollars and fifty-five cents a pound too much?   
  
He fell into another heavy, morose silence. Aubergines. He wanted aubergines, he decided.   
  
Except he couldn’t see them listed with the other vegetables. England frowned. He’d seen America purchase them before, so he knew they definitely existed in his country. He snooped around and couldn’t see it right away. He sighed, giving up. He approached the food stocker, shelving loaves of bread by the bucketful the next aisle ever.  
  
“I beg your pardon,” he said.  
  
The woman jumped, looking startled—again, with the reaction to the accent—and stared at him a moment before smiling. “Yes, sir, can I help you?”   
  
The ‘may’ was already on England’s lips, to correct her, but he restrained himself. America would throw a fit if he learned England was going around correcting his citizens’ grammar. It was something that England only really liked to do with America, though, aggravations aside. He always reacted so strongly…  
  
England cleared his throat. “I was searching through the produce section and I was hoping you could point me in the direction of the aubergines.”  
  
She stared at him for a longer moment before mouthing the word to herself and finally managing to parrot: “Aubergines?”   
  
“Yes. The aubergines,” England said again, and started moving his hands to demonstrate what one looked like.  
  
Apparently, the hand movements were too overwhelming for the poor woman, however, as she looked to be having an intensely erotic experience, cleared her throat, and closed her eyes. After waving haphazardly towards all the produce in the store, she quickly excused herself and went along her way, face red.  
  
England dropped his hands.   
  
“… Well, if they’re here, I suppose I missed them,” England mused to himself and, taking his basket, retreated to the produce section again, searching out the aubergines. It took him far longer than he would have liked, and he debated just giving up.  
  
And then he found them.   
  
“Eggplants.” England stared at the purple vegetable in shock, and then stared up at the ceiling. “ _Eggplants._ ”   
  
His hand was reaching for his cell phone before he could stop it, going to dial to America and tell him that he was an _idiot_. But he thought better of it and called France instead.  
  
“Eggplants!” he shouted into the phone as soon as he heard France pick up. “He calls aubergines ‘eggplants’!”   
  
France made a distant noise and England realized belatedly (and with a bit of sinful glee) that it was late in France. France’s heavily accented, albeit sleepy, cooed, “Hello to you, too.”  
  
“Yes, yes,” England interrupted. “But honestly. He calls them eggplants. Why would he do that? They aren’t even shaped like an egg!”   
  
He help the aubergine up, cupping it in his palm and staring at it as if it would reveal to him just why it was called the way it was.  
  
France was quiet a moment and England wondered if he’d fallen back asleep. Then France said, “Well, he does enjoy being original, as you know. His logic is a special kind.”   
  
“That’s just a pleasant way of saying he’s a fucking idiot,” England growled, and then glanced warily around to make sure no children were around to hear him cussing.   
  
“Having some troubles, hmmm?” France purred into the phone.  
  
“That’s not any of your business,” England growled, shoving some aubergines into a plastic bag and strangling them into the basket with the rest of his food.   
  
“If you two are having some trouble, perhaps it is my duty as big brother France to come and give you some comfort?”  
  
“Don’t you dare,” England growled into the phone.   
  
“Then perhaps I shall comfort America, instead!” France laughed.  
  
England glared at the aubergines still left to lie innocently against one another. He grabbed another, just in case—America did eat a lot.  
  
“He doesn’t even like you that much right now,” England muttered.   
  
“True enough,” France admitted with a large guffaw, his sleepiness seemingly sinking away in the face of aggravating England further. “In fact, it seems you are the only one who he can honestly say he likes in Europe at the moment, yes? The only one who has stuck with him so readily.”   
  
England fell silent.  
  
France continued, “But, truly. He does have a tendency to rename things he doesn’t like—do you remember, during the Great War, when sauerkraut became liberty cabbage? I find that unspeakably darling. And French fries to freedom fires, ha ha ha! And renaming all your words, too, yes? What is that charming little word he calls biscuits again?”  
  
“Cookies,” England whispered and hated that he felt like crying again.   
  
“Yes, that. How—what is the word—sweet!” France laughed again.   
  
“Whatever, frog. I have to go pay for these aubergines.”   
  
He hung up without waiting for France’s reply. As France did not call back, England assumed that the man had simply gone back to sleep. England pocketed his phone, stood staring at the aubergines for a long moment. And then he felt his bottom lip wobbled and completely hated himself for it.   
  
He felt someone tugging on his coat. He looked down.   
  
“It’s okay,” a little boy said, staring up at him. “I hate vegetables, too.”   
  
England stared at him. “Huh?”   
  
“You look really sad about having to eat eggplants,” the boy explained. “I don’t like them either, but Mama makes me eat them. She said it helps you get stronger, and also I can’t have desert without eating my vegetables. So I do.”   
  
“And where is your mother now?” England asked, slightly taken aback—children, he did not deal with children well (not ever since—).  
  
The child pointed to a woman observing cabbage with a critical eye.   
  
“She’s making me shop with her! But because of that I get to pick out the cereal!”   
  
“That’s a very important task,” England agreed, expression softening.   
  
“Mhm!” the boy said. “She also wanted me to get the eggplants for her.”   
  
And with that, he stood on the tips of his toes to grab a few eggplants, causing a few to topple over and threaten to hit the ground, though England caught them both before they could do so, replacing them to their rightful places. The boy looked as if he was about to run back to his mother, but England stopped him, holding out a bag for him. The child dropped them into the bag and took it from him, twisting it in his tinier hands.  
  
“Thanks!”   
  
“Of course.” England nodded. And then he paused, debated saying nothing, and then decided to just go with it: “I have a question.”  
  
“Yes?”  
  
“Do you happen to know why they’re called eggplants?” England asked.  
  
The child thought this over, and said, with a wide grin, “Because they’re the children of a chickenplant!”  
  
And with that he ran away. England watched him leave, slightly bemused by the words. And then he laughed, ducking his head and staring down into the basket at the bag of eggplants.  
  
“… That’s something that he would say, too, isn’t it?” he asked no one, and then walked off to pay for the groceries.   
  
Of course, paying for the groceries couldn’t possibly be an easy task. No, the rest of England’s day had already gone to hell, why should it stop being a bastard now, England had to wonder. He stood in line at the grocery store check-out, the cashier ringing up whoever was in front of him. Silently, England stacked his produce and canned goods onto the conveyer belt and waited his turn. In the meantime, he dug around in his pocket and pulled out American money, squinting down at them in a vain attempt to work out how much he would owe before he got there. This way he wouldn’t have to scramble around the woman cashier in his attempts to not act like a bumbling, flustered fool.   
  
He could work out the bills just fine, that was simple. The coins were what caused him the most concern. After approximate addition of how much everything would be, England fiddled with the various dimes and nickels, trying to remind himself that the stupid _smallest_ coin did not mean the least amount of money ( _Damn it, America,_ he cursed, and not for the first time).   
  
The cashier had begun ringing up England’s groceries and he stood in polite silence, patiently waiting to hand over the fistful of bills and coins he gripped tightly in his coat pocket. England watched the price run up as she scanned each item over the scanner. In the end, it came to a price he’d expected and he breathed a sigh of relief, opening his palm to scan through his coins one last time. And then the cashier fiddled with a few of the buttons, hit the big enter key, and the number flashed—adding on more money.   
  
“… Excuse me,” England said politely and the one’s eyes slanted towards him. He hoped she would be sensible and not react to his accent, but could England ever be so lucky in America’s country? “What did you add to my price?”  
  
“Sales tax,” she said with an absent shrug. “That’ll be twenty dollars and sixty-three cents.”  
  
England managed, just barely, to swallow a disdainful sob over his prolonged persecution. He dug around in his pocket, trying to scrape together enough coins to cover the ridiculous sales tax—what kind of stupid country didn’t factor the tax into the food prices? For fuck’s sake—and knowing that it was all in vain. He dropped the coins on the counter as he scrambled to search every pocket. The line grew behind him and his face flushed with shame.   
  
“Fuck it,” England growled to himself and ignored the scandalized gasp behind him as a mother shielded her child’s ears from such profanity. England almost swore again just to be an asshole, but decided that spreading a bad mood was not nearly as satisfying as going home and smashing all the aubergines into America’s smug little face. (England knew he wouldn’t subject the poor aubergines to such a dramatic fate, however, no matter how much he liked to fantasize such things.)  
  
Following his profane proclamation, England reluctantly pulled out his wallet, fished around for his credit card, and handed it over to the now exasperated cashier.   
  
“Crebid O’Debbid,” she drawled.  
  
England stared at her. “No, the name is Arthur Kirkland. It’s on the card.”  
  
She gave him a deadpan look, looking very much as if she wanted him to just go away—England almost preferred the mock orgasm other people tended to get from listening to him speak English like a normal person should.   
  
“Credible Debbie,” she said again.  
  
“I’m sure she’s very credible, yes,” England agreed, wishing the woman would just get on with it and swipe his card already. He wasn’t sure when the next bus would come, but he wanted to get back as soon as possible—not because he wanted to see America or anything, but rather because he was hungry and tired and just wanted to book a flight back to England as soon as possible.   
  
The woman barked out more word and it became adamantly clear to England that he had _no idea_ what the woman was saying. It was already embarrassing enough to have apparently said the wrong thing, and now asking the woman to repeat herself after misunderstanding twice would be entirely rude and humiliating.   
  
England swallowed. The woman stared at him with the withering gaze usually reserved for the lowest vermin on earth, to which she was only half willing to deign herself to stomp on. So England did what he typically did when he had no idea what was going on: he gave a slow, half-nod, uncommitted to doing a completely full nod, lest she actually think he was nodding. The trick was to look as if he was agreeing but then have deniability when called out on it. He wasn’t saying yes, but he could be!   
  
The woman seemed entirely unsympathetic and entirely not amused.   
  
“ _Credit_ ,” she said harshly, glaring at him now, “or _debit?_ ”   
  
England blinked at her. No one back home asked him such a stupid question. His credit card did not magically turn into a debit card when it was out of view (and England should know, being quite an expert when it came to magic. Unicorns would never waste their time on such insignificant human drivel. He’d tried to explain as much to America once when he got around to asking England if his fairies could fix financial crises—America hadn’t liked England’s resulting lecture on why that was the stupidest thing he’d ever asked). But a credit card was a credit card and a debit card was a debit card—there didn’t have to be some kind of mystery surrounding it, and England had a brief moment to believe that maybe all American citizens _were_ idiots. He knew this was an unfair statement, but frankly every time he visited the country he was baffled.   
  
With the flippancy of total incomprehension, England said, “My credit card is a credit card.” The woman narrowed her eyes. England added, “I do so hope you won’t need it, but shall I ask if you need any further elucidation on this point?”   
  
The woman took the card and began to prepare for the majestic swiping of said card—after such unnecessary and _stupid_ build up. She didn’t say anything more and it was a morbid, grim satisfaction that England decided that, yes, spreading bad moods was very satisfying, in a dickish way.   
  
England truly couldn’t bring himself to give that much of a fuck. His day was already the worst he could remember for at least a few weeks. He collected his bag of groceries, pocked the coins he’d left abandoned on the countertop, and trudged off towards the bus stop.   
  
Waiting at the bus, as was typical of all things iconic of a bad day, it began to rain. England found shelter under a lonesome looking newspaper fluttering along the gutter. He scooped it up to shield above his head as he made a mad dash for the bus stop and, hopefully, some solace from the rain underneath the bus shelter. The dash lasted for about one block before England sighed, gave up, and trudged the rest of the way, balancing the newspaper above his head, his briefcase under one arm, and his bag of groceries perched precariously on his forearm, attempting to balance it all and keep it from getting too wet. The paper bag was getting soggy.   
  
He wasn’t the only one at the bus stop once he did reach it, and the man underneath the overhang scooted aside slightly to make room for England. England nodded his thanks and shook out the newspaper, scattering the stray water droplets away from him with a tiny sigh. They stayed in relative silence, England trying to line the paper up correctly so he could fold it—which is when he saw it.   
  
_Could Britain’s Three-Way End the “Special Relationship”?_ the editorial section asked.   
  
First, England had to snort at the headline and the unintentional sexual innuendo—something America always delighted in finding in newspapers (“Republicans Unsatisfied with Obama’s Package” was still a fan favorite). Then he felt the dread boil in his stomach. He sat down on the bench beneath the overhanging, setting his soggy bag of groceries at his feet and his briefcase at his side. He glanced up at his companion, but he was staring down the street, looking to see if the bus was coming anytime soon. England straightened out the newspaper and began to read the editorial, eyes greedily striding across the page, trying to get at the words, trying to discern some kind of meaning, some kind of reality that he wasn’t sure he wanted to face.  
  
He read the article, not even realizing that he’d stopped breathing in the downpour of rain:   
  
_FOR MOST of the past year, Britain's upcoming election looked to be a familiar battle between Prime Minister Gordon Brown's Labor Party and the Conservatives under David Cameron. Once far behind, Mr. Brown seemed to be making a modest comeback when, in the past two weeks, the campaign was shaken by the introduction of an American import: the televised candidates' debate. The beneficiary has been neither Mr. Brown nor Mr. Cameron, but Nicholas Clegg, the leader of Britain's perennially also-ran Liberal Democratic Party. Judged the winner of the debates held this far, Mr. Clegg has suddenly become a contender -- and the election is looking as if it could significantly shift Britain's course._  
  
England shifted, crossing one leg over the other, leaning back against the overhang’s support pole. He continued to read:  
  
 _At this point it looks unlikely that Mr. Clegg's party will win the May 6 election and form the next government, if only because of the way Britain's voting system works. But it could force the first "hung parliament" since 1974, in which no party has a majority. That could mean messy negotiations over a coalition government, or a weak minority government. Either way Britain could have difficulty forging policies to emerge from the economic crisis or making decisions about its foreign and defense policies. The country is at something of a crossroads: A strategic defense review after the election could decide whether it continues to act as a close partner of the United States in military operations abroad or retreats to a lesser role._  
  
Oh Jesus, even America’s newspapers were mocking him. His mind flashed back to earlier in the morning, remembering the flush of anger and shame over America physically blocking him in the bathroom, being unable to shove the younger country away from him—the look of utter betrayal in America’s eyes before he decided that was too vulnerable for him. America’s face didn’t suit anger, not truly—he looked his best when he smiled, when his blue eyes were soft and warm. Never when he was angry, never when he was shoving him away (always shoving him away, always, always, always…).   
  
England told himself he was trembling because the air was cooler, the sun sinking towards the west, over the long expanse of America’s land. His fingers felt numb from the cold rainfall. He closed his eyes, trying to collect himself, debating that perhaps he shouldn’t finish this article. But he knew he would have to. Curiosity got the best of him.   
  
_Mr. Clegg's stance on those issues could make some in Washington nervous. In a speech this week he called for a shakeup in relations between the United States and the United Kingdom and described as "embarrassing the way Conservative and Labor politicians talk in this kind of slavish way about the special relationship." He added that there were "profound differences" between the two countries and argued that the Obama administration had already written off the idea that Britain was a special ally. "If they are moving on, why on earth don't we?" he said._  
  
England snorted. Making Washington nervous indeed. Most of the time America seemed completely oblivious, always assuming that everyone was behind him, always assuming that England would hurriedly whisper what was going on in the world the moment before the world meeting so he wouldn’t make a complete and utter fool of himself. England was always there, to straighten America’s tie, fill him in when he seemed overly bone-headed, and perhaps occasionally allowing for America to whisk England away to an undisclosed location for some serious “debriefing” as America liked to call it with a loud guffaw, as if no one had any idea what he was talking about _anyway._  
  
England shook his head. He really needed to stop thinking about that boy so much. It wasn’t healthy.   
  
But truly…   
  
_Intentionally or not, Mr. Obama has offered support for Mr. Clegg's argument: His relatively chilly relationship with Mr. Brown, including several perceived snubs, has been a persistent theme of British news coverage. Yet the United States can hardly afford a weaker or less friendly Britain at a time when it is still fighting two wars and when diplomacy with states such as Iran, North Korea and Syria is failing. Other longtime American allies, from Brazil to Turkey, have begun opposing the Obama administration on Iran and other issues. Though the next British government is unlikely to follow their course, Mr. Obama would be wise to reaffirm the "special relationship."_  
  
And with that, the article was finished. England knew he should toss it aside, ignore it as nothing more than fear mongering.   
  
But it still sent shock waves down England’s spine, leaving him cold and having to acknowledge that, no, it wasn’t just the rainfall that left him so cold. He stared at the article uncomprehending, unrelenting. Unwilling to acknowledge…   
  
_He needs me, he says,_ England thought bitterly, staring unblinkingly at the word “snubs.” _He doesn’t want me, though. He just needs me because he hasn’t anyone else who’s willing to bend over backwards for him. Damn boy…_  
  
“You alright there, pal?” the man asked him and England’s gaze flickered up to see the older man (though still much, much younger than England himself, naturally) staring at him with a look of concern.  
  
England pressed a hand to his face absently, realizing that perhaps he really wasn’t as good at hiding his feelings as he liked to think (it seemed it was only ever America who never understood, and that was the boy’s fault more than England’s own).   
  
“Oh, yes,” England said with a shake of his head. “Just reading the editorials.”  
  
The man looked taken aback a moment by the accent before he took a step closer. “… ‘Bout what? Healthcare?”  
  
“No, the Special Relationship,” England said with a shrug, holding the newspaper out to the man for him to read.   
  
England waited in patient silence as he stared out over the road. Reaffirm the relationship—it’d been done so many times, but it was always the same. England could still remember the fit America saw after seeing _Love Actually_ and declaring that England was a passive aggressive prick (and England had been too shocked to hear America use the word ‘prick’ instead of ‘dick’ to have much of a response). They’d ended up making up a few hours later, with America moaning as England pressed him up against the mirror and pressed into him.   
  
They fought often, and more times than not the relationship had been deemed dead, gone, unnecessary. The relationship had been tentative since its very formation, all those years ago. Really, England should just brush it off. It was ridiculous of him to let it get the best of him like that, when he knew, over and over and over, that things didn’t just end.   
  
But now it seemed different—with the way the world seemed to be spiraling now, the way things were shaping up—he felt the distance more than ever, felt the snub, even though America’s eyes stayed just as warm as his fingers tangled in England’s hair, brushed through them to grab his attention away from his needlework and focus on the young man in his lap instead. How could America expect so much from him when he didn’t even understand, when he didn’t even give anything in return other than heartache? But England knew that—he’d always known that. America was completely oblivious to things beyond himself.  
  
And now the man was shrugging, handing the article back to England.   
  
“Personally,” the man drawled, in a voice that sounded just like America’s, or what America’s would sound like centuries from now when he finally appeared this man’s age, “It’s probably better if it ends—the “Special Relationship” that is—there’s no point in keeping it around if it doesn’t do any good.”  
  
“Any good,” England mimicked, staring at his feet before sighing and standing up, tucking the newspaper into the outside pocket of his briefcase. “See, I feel that Britain would have a justification for having it end, but coming from your side I’m afraid it sounds a bit like sour grapes.”  
  
“We get more of what we want from Israel, anyway.”  
  
“Oh yes, of _course._ ” England stared up at the sky—how many times had he had to listen to America rattle on about Israel?   
  
“It’d be better if America focused on making close relations with Russia or—”  
  
“Russia! Hah!” England shouted, feeling hysteric. As if Russia could even begin to treat America right—and god the images, the images of Russia drawing America near, of whispering in his ear, of doing things to America and letting America do things to him. England felt sick.   
  
The man looked taken aback by this young British man’s response, but he frowned. “It doesn’t do any side any good—it was just a ploy to lift spirits during wartime.”   
  
England could remember, the first time Churchill said the words and America heard it, turning to England with wide eyes, his blue eyes sparking with hope behind the black eye he’d gotten from the fighting—England had smiled back around the edges of the bandages cover his face from the bombings of London. They’d smiled and there had been a moment of connection, of reconnection after years of separation. He’d—  
  
“Perhaps,” England said lightly, then cleared his throat to make sure his voice didn’t sound so far away, decades away.   
  
“If America doesn’t treat England with the respect and equality it wants, and England has other places it should be focusing on instead of alienating itself from the rest of the world staying in America’s shadow like this… then it’s better if it ends, don’t you think?” He didn’t wait for England’s response, because his attention was captured elsewhere: “Oh—here’s the bus.”  
  
England looked up, but didn’t see the bus through the blur of tears that suddenly filled his eyes—Jesus, what a joke. What a fucking joke, to be crying in the rain like this. England ducked his head, inhaled sharply.  
  
“This your bus, pal?” the man asked, jerking his thumb over his shoulder.   
  
England mutely shook his head, not even bothering to look at the number.   
  
“Alright then. Have a safe trip home, buddy,” the man said, climbed aboard the bus, and disappeared from England’s life forever.   
  
_Home._   
  
England watched the bus sail away, feeling utterly miserable. His heart felt heavy. The rain fell. He pulled the newspaper out, scanned the headline of the editorial again, and felt the tears come again. He felt utterly ashamed to be crying like this.   
  
England pressed the paper to his face, ignoring the smell of the newsprint. Tears burned his eyes and clouded his vision.   
  
“Yes, of course it’d be _better_ if we left the special relationship behind. Of course it’d be better if I focused on Europe and he focused on Russia—of course, of course I know that. But damn it… damn it…”   
  
He tried to control himself, but the tears dripped onto the editorial.  
  
“Damn it, I don’t _want_ to leave him.”   
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
**Stupidest Notes Ever:**  
  
\- Sauerkraut was indeed renamed to Liberty Cabbage during WWI because American sellers were worried that no one would buy German brand names. Sausages became Freedom Dogs (later hot dogs) and even dachshunds were renamed to Liberty Pups. It was the first instance of renaming but not the last (I’m lookin’ at you, Bush. Freedom Fries indeed…)   
  
\- “Republicans Dissatisfied with Obama’s Package” is indeed a title of a news article, from the New York Times. It’s regarding Obama’s stimulus bill, ha ha… oh innuendo, how I love you.   
  
\- [The article England read.](http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2010/04/23/AR2010042304806.html)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> England returns to America's apartment, and experiences the "fallout".

  
Of course, that last bus had been the bus England had meant to take, and since that particular bus stop he waited at didn’t have frequent service, England ended up sitting there alone for about another half of an hour. The rain fell steadily. No one else came to the bus stop, and he sat there alone, with only his thoughts and the sounds of raindrops as company. It almost reminded him of home, once he got past the difference in bus stops, and the fact that everyone drove on the wrong side of the road. People occasionally passed by the bus stop, speaking in the American accents, and England only half-listened, pretended it didn’t remind him of America (though of course, who else was it meant to remind him of?). England told himself, reasoned with himself, in that half hour. He told himself it was being wayward in a strange country that left him feeling so morose and unpleasant. He told himself it had nothing to do with his feelings, had nothing to do with emotions—even when presented with the obvious contradiction, he simply ignored it. Even if he and America both spoke the same language, it never really seemed like it—they were the same, but separated by too much difference. There was nothing, there was—  
  
“No sense being a blubbering mess about it, honestly,” he told himself, absently but defensively. It hadn’t been the first time he and America fought, and England was not so delusional to think it would ever be their last. England just never was that good at having a second skin when it came to America—he was still learning to be bulletproof.  
  
It was just overwhelming, effectively to be lost in translation in a country that spoke English. But of course England understood the lopsidedness of it all, he had since he and America had gotten closer after all these years. England’s people grew up on Americana, so he naturally understood America’s (sometimes completely asinine) slang. America hardly ever afforded England the same, aside from overusing “bloody” all the bloody time as a means to be ironically British sounding—and his accent still was horrid, frankly. The idiot was also a fan of “wanker” and “bollocks” as the epitome of “cute insults.” This in the past had been a source of more than one fight, and more than one night when America ended up sleeping on the couch. _“Come on, babe, you know I think your slang is adorable,”_ was America’s constant litany. It never served to set England into an angered fit, often kicking America in the shins until the idiot rolled away laughing. _Adorable._ He was not adorable in the slightest and America insulted him with such stupidity. _“It’s a compliment, you—hee—ninny!”_   
  
England could understand aspects of America, but in the grand scheme, he still felt lost, still felt confused—still felt as if he was being left behind, or lost in the dark. His heart hurt. Before England could drown further in his misery, however, he heard the grunted exhalation of diesel fuel as the bus lumbered around the corner. The bus came to a stop in front of him and England climbed aboard, balancing his soggy bag on his knee and counting the water droplets streaming down the bus’ windows, waiting until he could get off the bus and walk into his own personal hell. All he could hope was that America had grown tired of sitting at home and went out to hang with his brother or his boss. Or flirt with Russia or France as he was wont to do lately, England reminded himself bitterly. His mind floated back to his earlier thoughts, moments of mistranslation, of confusion. The moments when America found himself to be so fucking amusing when he wasn’t, making fun of England’s slang without having any idea what he was talking about.   
  
England mouthed insults to himself, sitting on that cold bus, and watched his breath fog over the window. He watched the mist spread across the glass, watched the mist fade away. He breathed out, deeply, letting the air rush over the coated windowpane. He watched it a moment. He breathed. Before he realized he was doing it, he used his index finger to draw a heart in the mist. It was lopsided, something a child would have done. Something a child would have made fun of. He grew embarrassed and quickly rubbed it out. Damn his sentimentality to hell.  
  
America. He—  
  
Conversation with America more often than not led to fits of hilarity for America. England was starting to suspect that America knew exactly what England was saying at all times and just chose to pretend for the sake of pissing England off. It worked. One of these days, England knew that he would go insane and just murder the idiot, and feed him to his pet whale. And then he would laugh and laugh and laugh. Manic laughter, even. And he wouldn’t miss him at all—not in the _least_ , and his past fit at the bus station was in no way indicative of his feelings on the matter in the slightest. And he’d be dead and that would be the end of it all. With the death of America, it would save the world a lot of headache and heartache, England included.  
  
And good riddance to rubbish, and the like. Right?   
  
Even though he’d rubbed it away, England could still see the oiled stain on the window from his finger, the distant shadow of a heart among all the pouring raindrops. England glared at it as if it had done him a great grievance. And it had, merely by existing.   
  
England stared out—or at—the window for a long moment before recognizing the buildings outside and pulling the yellow line to signal a stop request. The bus continued on until it reached the stop, lurching to a stop. The bus wheezed and rumbled as it waited for England to step off the bus, nearly spilling his kidney beans and aubergines across the pavement in the process.   
  
He scrambled in his pockets for a long while, searching out the key to the building and the apartment. The world outside was hazy, misty with the rainfall and the slowly darkening sky. England closed his eyes, resting slightly as his hand finally closed awkwardly around the key in his trouser pocket. It slipped into the lock effortlessly and thus began England’s herculean task of climbing up the stairs while balancing his soggy bag of groceries, his briefcase, and his wounded pride.   
  
He hesitated before opening the door to America’s apartment, almost unwilling to face him, or unwilling to face nothing—and he wasn’t sure what would be worse: an apartment with America waiting for him, or an apartment in which America was conspicuously absent. But the key opened the door effortlessly and England toddled in, slipping off his shoes and dripping on the tiled foyer before he stalked sadly into the living area. The phone in its cradle was flashing at him—messages waiting—and England lowered his eyes. If there were messages waiting, that meant that America wasn’t here.   
  
“Of course,” he said to no one and shuffled his way to the kitchen, setting his briefcase down on the kitchen table and the soggy bag of groceries onto the kitchen counter. The cans of kidney beans spilled out forlornly from their dampened prison and rolled innocently across the counter, before clunking into the tea kettle England had left out from earlier in the day. His mug was still waiting by the sink. America hadn’t even cleaned up.   
  
He stared at his purchased groceries in sullen acknowledgement of his own depressing, pathetic nature. He didn’t feel like cooking. He should have gone out to a restaurant and left the idiot to starve. Or just gone to a hotel and ordered room service, while ordering all the movies on pay-per-view and barking out snide insults about America’s movies with no one around to hear.  
  
He pressed a hand to his face. God, he was pathetic.   
  
England had just contented himself with the fact that he would be having dinner alone—or perhaps he should just leave and get a hotel—when he heard footsteps behind him. There was a stilled silence, in that moment when England refused to turn around and confirm, in that moment when his heart leapt. Distantly, he was thankful he hadn’t started crying or singing or anything remotely embarrassing, now that he realized he was not as alone as he’d thought.   
  
“Kidney beans and eggplants? What the heck are you planning on making, anyway?”   
  
The voice wasn’t accusing, but genuinely curious. England glanced over his shoulder to see America lingering in the doorway. He couldn’t place the expression on the boy’s face, and England wasn’t sure if he wanted to. He turned his face away.  
  
“… America, how much is an ounce?” England asked instead of answering the boy, because frankly he had no idea what he planned to make.  
  
“I have no idea,” America said, almost defensively, undoubtedly waiting for England’s snide remark about his stupidity or the stupidity of his country’s systems. Preemptively diverting England’s attack, he added, “I don’t cook a lot, so I don’t really need to know.”   
  
“I thought so,” England said, and said nothing more. He didn’t look up at America. He saw the boy shift out of the corner of his eye, though, listened to him sniff, wipe his nose with the back of his hand and wipe it on his pant leg. It was disgusting but England bit back the reprimand on America’s hygiene. He didn’t have the energy to fight.   
  
“It’s raining hard outside,” England said, absently, opening the fridge and staring at the colorful milk cartons with a sense of loathing, searching out something he could add to aubergines and kidney beans.   
  
“Aren’t you used to the rain?” America asked.  
  
England didn’t answer, and apparently America got bored waiting because when England finally worked up the courage to look at America, the boy was gone from the doorway and back to whatever shadow he’d been lurking in before.   
  
The older nation wrinkled his nose in distaste, walking to the doorway and looking out—but no America. He frowned and looked down. “There are a lot of things I should be used to.”   
  
He turned away and walked back, sighing. He was being ridiculous—America was in the wrong here, and the bastard probably knew that England had been in a fit all day and was probably gloating about it. In the grand scheme of things, America really was a child, and a selfish one at that. England walked over to the counter and righted the can of kidney beans. But damn it all if he didn’t love the moron, despite his selfish behavior. Perhaps England really was a masochist.   
  
Resolved that he would get a hotel for the rest of his stay in the United States, England walked towards the foyer to deposit his dripping coat. He’d take a shower and warm up before leaving the idiot to gloat alone—maybe America’d call up Israel and they could have a jolly good time without him. It wasn’t as if England needed him or anything, damn it. He’d drink alone (and probably end up giving France more phone calls at indecent hours).   
  
“Fuck, motherfucker, fuck!” America announced, loudly, when England opened the door, startling the other nation. But America undoubtedly hadn’t noticed England’s arrival, as he sat, cross-legged and hunched over slightly, staring into the television screen with such determination that it was a wonder his eyes didn’t pop out of his skull. He pounded away at a video game controller, swearing colorfully into the headset he wore on his head, undoubtedly cursing God with his fellow gamers.   
  
It seemed as if America was at a particularly stressful moment in his game and England briefly entertained the notion of just walking across America’s field of vision just to mess his game and concentration up. He’d yelled at England enough times in the past for England to know it annoyed the younger boy. But instead he waited patiently, waiting until America’s player died before walking across the room to kick open his suitcase and dig around for dry clothing.   
  
When England straightened, America was looking at him instead of the television screen, that same unreadable expression in his eyes again. England looked away, crossing the room again towards the bathroom. He closed the door, turning to stare at himself in the mirror.  
  
He was a right mess. He looked like a drowned rat. A miserable drowned rat. And his eyes were red and slightly puffy—fuck. He shed his wet clothing, letting them flop indecently to the floor and crawled into the shower. He waited for the water to heat up to a scalding hot temperature and sat on the floor of the shower, letting the water beat down on him. He drew his knees to his chest and sighed.   
  
He really was a hopeless case.   
  
England must have been in there long enough to cause some concern, because he heard the door open and America coughing as his lungs adjusted to the humid, steam-filled bathroom. England looked up as he heard the shower curtain drawn back, and saw America looking down at him. England didn’t get up from the shower and pretended that his current stance wasn’t completely humiliating and vulnerable. He looked away, making an attempt to demonstrate that he was in a quasi-fetal position on the floor of the shower because he was scrubbing his toes… without soap or a washcloth, but that was _completely_ irrelevant.   
  
“What are you doing?” America asked, clearly not understanding that England was simply washing his toes.  
  
England frowned at him. “What are _you_ doing? Do you often interrupt people’s showers to have conversations with them?”  
  
America shrugged, either missing entirely or ignoring England’s sarcasm and defensiveness.   
  
“I had to go to the bathroom.”  
  
“Well you’re certainly not pissing in the shower while I’m using it, you twit. Get out of here,” England said, looking away as he stood up, crossing his arms defensively.   
  
America gripped the shower curtain, frowning at England.   
  
“… Did you buy any beer?” America asked, after a moment of stilled silence, as if trying to find the right words and settling on stupidity instead.   
  
England scoffed. “You honestly came in here to ask me such an asinine question when you’re more than capable of going out and seeing that I didn’t? I bought a bunch of aubergines.”  
  
“What are—”  
  
“ _Eggplants,_ ” England corrected, with a roll of his eyes. “Why are those things called such a ridiculous thing?”   
  
America gave him a blank look a moment, as if surprised that England didn’t know. England stared right back, and squinted slightly when water splashed into his eye.   
  
“Europeans called it eggplant first,” America said.  
  
England stared at him. “They did not.”  
  
America nodded, gravely. “In the eighteenth century. It used to be the shape and size of a goose egg. And some species are white. So it looked like eggs to them.”  
  
England stared at him. America stared back.   
  
“Oh,” England said, intelligently.  
  
“Yeah,” America said. “Aren’t you always going on about how much you hate France? Why’re you using his words?”  
  
“I do _not_ want to have this conversation,” England muttered.   
  
They stood in silence some more. The water pounded down on England’s back, scalding hot—his skin was red now.   
  
“So… you didn’t buy beer.”  
  
“Is that really all you’re concerned about?” England huffed, frown deepening. “Well, you have your precious drive-thru liquor stores—heaven knows _why_ such a thing came into being—so you can go and get your beloved beer, and while you’re at it shoot your gun out the window just for the hell of it. Isn’t that what you and your people do in your spare time?”  
  
America made a face. “Don’t insult my culture when you’re naked. It’s really weird.”   
  
England looked away, face red. “And don’t talk to me so casually when we’re in the middle of a fight.”   
  
England wrenched the curtain from America’s hand and closed it again, creating the barrier between the two. England ducked his head, glaring at his toes.   
  
“Or perhaps it’s just me being a fool. It probably doesn’t mean a thing to you, does it? It never does.”   
  
“… You get like this a lot, sometimes,” America admitted.  
  
That was certainly the wrong thing to say. England threw the curtain aside, angrily, and some of the water from the showerhead sprayed against America, who squinted. He pulled his glasses off his nose, calmly, and cleaned them, all the while England glared at him.  
  
“Of _course,_ ” England hissed angrily, “I’m being irrational. It’s not as if I have any justification in any of this.”  
  
America had the humility to look ashamed, and almost cringed. He stared down at his glasses a moment before pushing Texas up the bridge of his nose and staring at England for a long moment, expression almost hopeless. The only sound that filled the bathroom was the sound of the running water (and England knew he was wasting water but couldn’t bring himself to care). He watched America’s eyes flicker, his gaze shifting downward—and for a split second England thought the boy was being lewd, until he realized his eyes were on the bruises peppered across England’s hips, the shape of America’s fingerprints.   
  
When America looked up at England’s face again, he looked as if he was going to say something, perhaps an apology, perhaps something… but he closed his mouth, sighing.  
  
“… What happened at your meeting?” he asked at last.  
  
England’s eyes narrowed. “Of course that’s what you’re after to know.”  
  
“Just tell me,” America countered, frowning and not looking at England now. “When are you leaving me?”   
  
England drew back slightly, taken aback as America stared at the sink with a look of utter concentration. The words were already forming on England’s lips— _I don’t want_ —before he remembered himself and fell silent. Instead of saying the words he wanted to say, he said: “I don’t know.”   
  
America glanced at him, that unreadable expression again.   
  
England sighed, leaning against the cool tiles lining the shower walls. “I don’t remember any of it.”  
  
“Huh?” America asked.  
  
England didn’t say anything at first, arms crossed, protectively, not making eye contact and instead staring at Nantucket standing straight up on America’s unruly head of hair. The words weighed heavy in his chest, stuck in his throat.   
  
“I was distracted,” England said at last. “But unlike you, I’m not given days off when I apparently ‘look’ like I need it.” England added, bitterly, “ _You_ look fine to _me._ ”   
  
“… Oh,” America said. “Okay.”  
  
“With my election coming up soon, it’s better to… focus on that, instead of other things. Other issues that need to be addressed will have to follow after the new shape of the government occurs.”  
  
“Oh yeah,” America said absently, watching condensed steam slip down the walls of the bathroom, like the raindrops in the bus, England thought. “Your election’s soon, huh?”  
  
“A fortnight,” England agreed.  
  
“Huh?” America asked.  
  
England deadpanned. “I know you know how long that is.”  
  
There was a flicker of a smile on America’s face but he quickly smothered it. He cleared his throat. “Yeah. So you’ll ditch me then, then.”   
  
“Stop playing the victim. It doesn’t suit you,” England said, disdainfully so.   
  
America said nothing.  
  
England looked down, fiddled with his hands, unsure what to do and feeling increasingly awkward of just standing there naked when he really should be taking a shower and leaving America to scream obscenities to gamers a fraction of his age.   
  
“After I’m finished with my shower, I’ll get a hotel room for the remainder of my stay,” England said, quietly, his words almost drowned out by the sound of running water.  
  
America’s face flickered, blue eyes flashing to England’s face, holding his gaze firmly.   
  
England was the one to break the eye contact, reclaiming the shower curtain and closing it, creating the barrier between them again.   
  
“Leave me be. I’m wasting your hot water.”   
  
America didn’t say anything more but England listened the slow, shuffling footsteps. When he peeked out from behind the curtain, it was in time to watch America push Texas to the top of his head and press a hand to his face before it drifted up to tangle in his hair. America shut the door behind him and England didn’t know how to make of that gesture.   
  
Once the scalding hot water ran itself off to a more tepid temperature, England closed the water off and stood, dripping, in the shower for a long moment. Then with a sigh he pulled himself into a fluffy, warm towel, rubbing himself down and staring at his face in the mirror (rubbing at it with the towel to defog it long enough to see his reflection)—his eyes were still red, and that was a pain in the ass. He dropped the towel and slipped into a robe, wrapping it around himself as he dripped watered footprints to the floor.   
  
He stooped to pick up his rumpled, sorry excuse for clothing and left the bathroom. Steam poured out into the room and England breathed in the crisp, stark air of the world outside the steam-filled bathroom. America had returned to his spot on the bed, playing his video game but lacking the vigor and profanity he usually adapted whenever he played video games. He clicked away, completing whatever asinine mission he had left to do, but his heart just wasn’t in it, that much was clear.   
  
England watched the screen for a long moment, waited until there was a cut scene and the following silence from the absence of America’s button-smashing before crossing the room again to his suitcase, collecting relatively clean clothes. He’d meant to bring them with him into the bathroom, but America was, as always, stupidly distracting when it came to England trying to be productive. England glanced over his shoulder towards America, who still stared at the screen as if trying to garner some kind of entertainment or semblance of normalcy. Perhaps for the first time, England realized that things _were_ bothering America, but in his typical bravado fashion, he was too much of an idiot to let himself show it. A warmth bloomed in England’s chest that had nothing to do with the warm shower he’d just taken, but he quickly did his best to squash it—they were in the middle of a fight, and perhaps this time it would be for good. He would finish his stay in the United States, fly home to deal with his own problems, and then after his election… who knew what would happen.   
  
He sniffled, and then turned his face away before seeing America stiffen up and glance over at England, before his eyes flickered back to the television screen. England pulled out a pair of pants and new trousers, setting about dressing himself, opening the robe. It hung limp on his shoulders and he stooped down, dressing himself before shrugging out of the robe and using it to towel his hair a moment. He set it down on the back of the chair, his bare toes poking at his suitcase with a look of utter disdain. He should pack, shouldn’t he…?  
  
America kept shifting in the way he always did when he had something to say and, for once, was doing his best to restrain himself. England tried to ignore him, but ignoring America was impossible—like ignoring the way he was drowning, the way the sun blinded his eyes when he looked at it too directly, things like that.   
  
He eyed his wrinkled shirts with silent distaste. There would be an ironing board, hopefully, in his hotel room. In fact, he’d make sure of it. It wouldn’t do to look like such a mess at meetings as he had today. He heard America shift behind him and he glanced over his shoulder again, staring at him.   
  
America didn’t look up from his video game. A few moments later, though, he died, and he slanted his eyes towards England while he waited for the game to reload him.   
  
“I bought an electric teapot.”  
  
That hadn’t been what he’d expected to hear and England started a little in surprise. “Huh?”  
  
“I bought one. I found it online. It’ll show up in a few days,” America explained and then said nothing more, turning his attention back towards the screen again as his avatar reappeared onscreen and he went back to trying to shoot helicopters from the sky or whatever it was he was trying to do. He didn’t smile, didn’t frown—he just stared at the screen, the images reflecting on his glasses lenses when they were at the right angle. But England saw it, the slightest twitch at the corner of America’s eye, the tense slope of his shoulders.   
  
England was quiet a moment. “Oh.”   
  
“Yeah.”   
  
England didn’t look at him as he finished dressing, his fingers fumbling on the buttons—remembering America’s clumsy hands always trying to remove the buttons in a timely fashion and always, always failing—and his face a gentle red color. Oh.   
  
He tried to force himself to be angry, to tell himself that it wasn’t about the fucking kettle, that he didn’t need that if he was _leaving_ and never returning. But when he glanced at America again, he wasn’t even pretending to play anymore, just staring at England with those impossibly blue eyes, and England suspected the bastard knew exactly what those eyes did to England. His fingertips fumbled over the last few buttons of his shirt and his hands flopped down, uselessly, as they made the silent eye contact.   
  
“You…” England began. “You… always do look ridiculous when you wear that headset of yours.”  
  
It hadn’t been what he’d wanted to say, and his face downcast he turned away, stuffing the rest of his clothes into the suitcase and zipping it shut. He didn’t wait to see if it was a cut scene or America was dead before crossing in front of the television, but it didn’t matter because he heard the bed squeak, heard America throw the controller aside and follow after England. England did his best to make a quick getaway, but America was faster, and yanked the suitcase from his hand.   
  
“England,” he said, desperately, but hadn’t seemed to have thought this far ahead, as he didn’t say anything other than his name, stared at him so utterly, holding England’s suitcase in a death grip England knew he wouldn’t be able to beat again—damn that boy, for always using his strength against England.   
  
“What?” England breathed.  
  
“Wait,” America demanded, because America did not beg or plead.   
  
England turned away, grabbing his briefcase, staring at it as if his life depended on it. Damn, he needed a drink. Maybe he should have bought beer at the liquor store—but America’s beer had always been piss-poor, nothing like what could actually get England drunk enough to forget, drunk enough to pretend he didn’t care when he looked into that boy’s eyes.   
  
“Look,” America said, and England half-expected him to corner England or to block him from getting to the door, like he had this morning. But it seemed America had rightfully assumed England would not leave without his suitcase. “Look,” he said again. “You… know that I don’t know what’s wrong unless you say it, right? You’re the one who’s always calling me the idiot.”  
  
England’s eyes narrowed. “The fact that you can’t even know what’s wrong is what proves my point.”  
  
“What point?”  
  
England shook his head, gripping his briefcase like a lifeline. The briefcase was all he needed, really—he could make a mad dash for the door if he so wanted. But he would need to buy a toothbrush and other such necessities and the idea of returning to America’s stores unaccompanied was enough to make England never want to leave America’s apartment. It was the idea of being lost in America’s country that made him stay, not because America was staring at him with those pleading blue eyes that refused to plead.   
  
“Look,” America said again, and he always seemed to say ‘look’ when he was trying to be respectable and mature, trying to be authoritative—it was a move taken from America’s boss, a boss that didn’t even _like_ England, apparently. “If anyone should be mad, it should be me because—”  
  
“Oh, is that _so?_ ” England interrupted, his stomach twisting into knots.   
  
“—you’re the one who’s leaving me behind when I need you, and then get angry at me for things you won’t even _say._ How am I supposed to argue if I don’t even know what I’m arguing about?”  
  
“… Fuck you,” England said, for lack of anything else to say. He was shaking, his head jerked away from America so he wouldn’t have to look at him.  
  
“England—”  
  
England seized the newspaper from the front pouch of his briefcase, and threw the newspaper at America’s head before storming away. “Figure it out yourself, idiot.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And then everything comes to its conclusion.

  
“England?” America asked, almost meek, a few minutes later, peeking into the kitchen. “Oh, there you are.”  
  
England sent him a glare and ignored him. He turned away.   
  
America scratched his head, staring down at the newspaper. “You’re this upset over… Greece?”  
  
“… What,” England said, not so much a question as a disbelieving exhalation. He turned his attention back towards America to see the boy holding up the newspaper to a front page article discussing Greece’s currently increasingly bleak economic crisis. England felt his rage return tenfold. “ _NO_ , you damned idiot, I—”  
  
“Well I looked over all the articles and I have no idea what else could possibly be making you this agitated!” America protested, and for the first time that night sounded utterly desperate. “England, come _on_ , just tell me!”   
  
“It’s in the editorial page, twit,” England hissed and turned away, gripping an aubergine and a knife and contemplating throwing one or both at America.   
  
America must have sensed his immediate danger because he turned to the editorial page and ducked behind the kitchen’s island, stooping to scan all the opinions about healthcare and the war and school uniforms and—  
  
“Oh,” America breathed, quietly.   
  
_Finally,_ England thought, but didn’t feel victorious. He hated to think that maybe America would agree with the article, as his citizens had.   
  
“England!” America said, desperately, standing up quickly he knocked his head against the overhang of the island. He cursed quietly, but that didn’t extinguish the earnest look in his eyes as he tried to catch England’s eye. England ignored him, instead slamming the knife down into the aubergine just to demonstrate his utmost distaste and hatred for everything American.   
  
America tripped his way around the island to come stand beside England, stuffing the article under England’s nose—the very article England had been talking about.  
  
“This is what’s been bothering you?” America asked, “Since this morning?”   
  
England didn’t say anything, just shoved the article away from his face and went back to butchering the aubergines on the cutting board. The knife slammed down loudly, and England tried to filter his aggression that way.   
  
“No,” England muttered at last. “I didn’t get the paper until a couple hours ago.”  
  
America frowned. He stared at the paper. “But it _is_ bothering you.”  
  
The brutal murder of the aubergines stopped abruptly, the powerful slams of a knife on a cutting board falling silent. England didn’t turn to look at America, but kept staring down at the vegetable—probably actually a fruit, England thought distantly, seeing the seeds in a ring on the inside of the slices he was making—and not saying anything.   
  
“It is,” America said, more firmly this time.   
  
England dropped he knife and turned away, pulling a pot out and filling it with water.   
  
“Well,” America said absently, watching England carry the pot over to the stove. “It doesn’t bother me.”  
  
England slammed the pot down loudly onto the stove, perhaps because he’d been surprised enough to drop it, or perhaps because he wanted to drown America’s words out, pretend he hadn’t heard it at all.  
  
He flipped the switch of the stove, set it on high to get the water to boil. He muttered to himself.   
  
“It doesn’t bother me because—”  
  
“Fuck you,” England said, harshly, bitterly, trying to push his way past America and escape the kitchen again.   
  
America grabbed England’s wrist, though, before he could get away and shoved him up against the refrigerator. The appliance groaned slightly as it shifted to accommodate the sudden new weight. The papers on the refrigerator’s magnetic surface, all anchored by dopey magnets America had collected from his own tourist attractions, crinkled under England. England stared at America in shock for a moment before shoving at his shoulders.  
  
“Stop using your force on me, you bastard—”  
  
America loosened his grip on England, shifted his hands to press against the refrigerator on either side of England’s head. England attempted to duck away, now that his suitcase was liberated and waiting for him near the door, and he had a clear breakaway to the door to just leave—  
  
“Wait,” America said again and didn’t reach out to stop England this time, though England did stop. “Don’t leave.”  
  
He spoke quietly, because America refused to beg, but his expression gave him away. England sighed, leaned back against the refrigerator just because that was _easier_ then trying to get away from America. Somehow, though, England knew that America was saying more than just _don’t leave this kitchen._   
  
Frustrated, England punched America in the cheek.  
  
“ _OW,_ shit!” America cursed, ducking his head.   
  
England stared at the ceiling, not feeling any better. Damn.   
  
America lifted a hand to rub at his cheek, looking more than miffed now. He glared at England, but that same vulnerability that America would adamantly deny existed was there—impossibly blue eyes, beautiful blue eyes.   
  
America head-butted England, forehead smashing together.  
  
“ _FUCK,_ ” England hissed, nearly collapsing from the sudden attack, hands pressing against his forehead as his head exploded into a splitting headache. He almost kneed America in the groin, but decided that was too low of a blow—they were even now, at least.   
  
England kept saying they were even to himself even as he launched himself forward, using his feet to push off the refrigerator, and send America to the floor. The younger nation’s head cracked loudly on the tiled floor but he would survive, England knew, which was why he had no qualms of straddling him and raining his fists down on his chest, punching him with as much strength as he could muster. America cursed, loudly, trying to work himself free and kick England in the chest, but England was heavy when he wanted to be, and had plenty of practice pinning America down—he refused to swivel his hips, he absolutely refused—okay, maybe one swivel—it was the right choice. America moaned, not from pleasure, but rather from the pain of the sudden crash and the punches. England stopped punching him, breathing heavy.   
  
“Shit,” America breathed, cracking one eye open when he thought it was safe. England contemplating punching him in the nose, but decided against it. “England,” he breathed, “You…” Though then it seemed that America thought he was being too soft, because his voice hardened and he turned his face away. “Well, fine. When are you leaving? I don’t want you around if all you’re going to do is be pissy and then punch me.”  
  
“Don’t you _get_ it?” England shouted.  
  
“How the hell am I meant to get it if you don’t just come out and _say_ it? You make no _sense_!”   
  
“I don’t _want_ to leave!” England shouted, panting, still straddling America on the kitchen floor, the knife and boiling pot of water above them, though neither were placed in precarious places. England glared down at America, daring him to throw that overture back in his face.   
  
But America didn’t seem surprised or disgusted by the words, which England half-expected, but instead said, “I don’t want you to leave, either! So what the fuck is the _problem?_ ”   
  
England pulled away, still sitting on America, though, and crossed his arms.   
  
America sat up, leaning back on his elbows and forearms, body shuddering slightly. He tilted his head, tried to catch England’s eyes again. This time, when he spoke, his voice was gentler than it had been before: “That’s why I’m not worried, ya know.”  
  
England glanced at America out of the corner of his eye, but refused to turn his face towards him.  
  
America seemed undaunted, and kept talking (he was good at that): “Because if neither of us wants to leave, who cares what it’s called, right?”   
  
“Shut up,” England said, for lack of anything else to say.  
  
America flopped back onto his back, lifting his arms to cover his face with them. He laughed, not quite humorously but not mirthless, either. “Shit, my cheek is going to bruise.”   
  
“You’ll live,” England muttered, but did almost sound guilty.   
  
America took a deep inhale, then let it wheeze out. England watched his chest rise and fall, felt his own breath mirroring America’s.   
  
“Besides,” America said after a lengthy pause. “Your side’s always talking about how the Special Relationship is dead. Like, seriously all the time.”  
  
“Shut up,” England said again. “That isn’t what this is about.”  
  
“Then what _is_ it about, England?” America asked, dropping his arms away and blinking owlishly up at England.  
  
England sighed, ducking his head a moment before thinking that seemed too dismissive and straightening his back, shifting forward so that he was closer to America’s face, capturing his eyes and holding firm. Their chests pressed together.   
  
“It’s attitudes like that,” England hissed, “That I absolutely hate.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Assuming that I’m just being ‘pissy’ when my people or government says the Special Relationship is over. You just assuming I’ll come crawling back to you like a wanton whore.”   
  
America frowned. “I don’t think that.”  
  
England shrugged, shifting closer still. He could feel America’s shallow breaths ghost over his lips, and it was too close—he had to pull back. But he didn’t. He felt the possessiveness flowing through him, coiling into a tight ball in the pit of his stomach, pulsing with every little breath America took that saddled England up closer to the younger man. Carding his fingers through America’s hair became an unspeakable urge, and he felt sick at the image of anyone else being able to do that to America, doing that to America once their relationship ended—For good? For now? Forever?  
  
“No, what I meant was… was that it didn’t matter what people said,” America protested, and his hands shifted as if he was going to touch England and then thought better of it. “Because you and I are different.”   
  
England frowned at him.  
  
America squirmed, his legs shifting, pressing England unnaturally close, unintentional. Unintentional? America’s eyes were too wide and too blue.   
  
“It doesn’t matter what goes on outside. I’m me and you’re you. And I’m… um. Look… I…” He seemed to be really looking at England now. England wasn’t sure if he liked that. America said, quietly, “Your eyes are red.”  
  
“They most certainly are not and you insult me with such an accusation.” He looked away, rearing back so he was simply sitting on America again. But it felt too far away—he didn’t want America to get too far away anymore. Not ever. He glanced at America again, really looked into this blue eyes that were too big. “So are yours.”  
  
“I got cocaine earlier.”  
  
“You did _not._ ” England’s eyes narrowed when he caught the slightest hint of a smile touch the corner of America’s mouth.   
  
“I was cutting onions?” he asked.  
  
“Your hands don’t smell like it,” England muttered, lowering his gaze.   
  
“There’s this amazing invention called soap, England. I’m sure you’ve heard of it.”   
  
“Whatever, America,” England muttered, and made to pull himself completely away, except that America wrapped his arms around England’s waist and kept him there on top of him.  
  
Their eyes met.   
  
“Can we stop fighting now?” America asked.  
  
England frowned at him. “You selfish bastard, you don’t even know why we’re fighting.”   
  
America at least had the common decency to look ashamed of this truth. He shrunk back against the tiled floor. England sighed, lifting his hands, fully intending to shove away from America but instead his fingers drifted over the boy’s biceps and rested on his shoulders. Something in the back of his head told him he should run, but another part told him just to shag America senseless on the floor and be done with it. He settled for neither, and looked utterly conflicted a moment as he towered over America. America licked his dry lips, swallowed dryly as he gazed up at England.   
  
“Tell me,” America said, because he did not plead.   
  
And this time England listened, this time the words tumbled out of his mouth, “You take me for granted. You forget we’re supposed to have some kind of special relationship and ignore me when I say that my people want to go away from you—unless, of course, that means you won’t get what you want anymore. You expect me always to be there, but when I need you, you have nothing to give, nothing to say. If something happens that doesn’t directly and immediately affect _you_ , you don’t care. You just… don’t care.”   
  
America stared at him, wide eyed.  
  
England took the hands away from America’s shoulders and pressed the base of his palms against his own eyelids, forcing away that urge to cry. He must be strong now, to show America that it did _not_ bother him at all and that waver in his voice was completely America’s imagination.   
  
“It isn’t equal, America,” England whispered. “I’m just there when you need me and in the end there isn’t much that I can give you anymore—your citizens certainly think so, your media outlets think so. You’d be better off focusing on Russia,” he paused and suppressed a shiver, “Or… others. Anyone. Just… not me.”  
  
He couldn’t stop the waver in his voice that time and he cut himself off abruptly. But America, dense as he was, heard it. England squeezed his eyes shut but he felt America shift below him, arch up, felt two warm hands touch his cheeks, cup his face.   
  
“England,” America said softly.   
  
England shook his head. “You can’t deny it, you selfish bastard.”   
  
“Open your eyes?” America asked.  
  
England thought about being stubborn, thought about refusing. But he could never refuse America—and that was the whole damned problem—and his eyes flickered open. America stared at him, expression crumbled. The bravado was gone, and England wasn’t sure if he liked that or not. America’s thumbs brushed over his cheekbones, fingers curled into the wiry strands of his hair. America opened his mouth at the same time England did and they both snapped their mouths shut together. America worried his lower lip between his teeth, chewing on it thoughtfully. England’s eyes flickered, watching the movement—wanting to kiss him and indulging silently in that urge, though he did not follow through with it.   
  
“That isn’t me,” America said.  
  
“It damned well—”  
  
“I mean,” America interrupted. “It’s my country, my government, my people. But they aren’t _me._ ”   
  
“Don’t be—”  
  
“I mean… I don’t make the decisions. I am the result of decisions, of choices, of people. But there is also something here that’s just me. You told me that, once.”   
  
England’s eyes lowered, staring at the rise and fall of America’s chest, the beating of his heart through his tee-shirt. England swallowed, felt his cheeks warm not from the hands upon them. He closed his eyes again.  
  
“I’m an asshole,” America agreed. “I know I am. You know I am.”  
  
England snorted.   
  
“My government does what any government does—what they think is best for the country.”   
  
England nodded, eyes still shut.  
  
America paused for a long moment, and said, quietly: “But even if that’s all true… what they know, what they see—it isn’t the same as me.”   
  
A thumb brushed over England’s eyelid, softly, brushing up over his eyebrow. England’s eyes flickered open. America gave him that lopsided, unsure smile of his, the kind that often made England want to melt, though he rarely allowed himself to.  
  
“They haven’t lived the life I have—they never will. They don’t have the memories I do—to them, it’s history. To me, it’s memories.”   
  
“I know,” England said. “I’ve been alive much longer than you have.”  
  
“Then you should know that no matter what my people say,” America said, pausing to curl his fingers into England’s hair again. “It’s different from me—because to them, it’s just politics. And it isn’t for me. And,” America said, and paused, blushing. “I hope it isn’t just politics to you.”  
  
“If you have to say that then you… really are an idiot,” England whispered.   
  
America made a soft sound.  
  
England sighed. “I have no idea where this random bout of maturity came from. Weren’t you whining and carrying on this morning?”  
  
America shrugged. “That was this morning. I had the whole day to myself to do nothing. So I ended up thinking too much.”  
  
“Hm,” England grunted, then muttered, “It’s weird.”   
  
“The water’s boiling,” America pointed out, watching the water boil over the edge of the pot.  
  
England looked up. “So it is.”   
  
America shifted, no longer on the ground but rather sitting with England in his lap. He shut the stove off, hesitantly, seemingly wary to take his fingers from England’s hair.   
  
“Look,” America said when he turned his attention once again away from the stove and towards England instead. He licked his dry lips, hands in England’s hair again, seemingly unconcerned with England sitting in America’s lap—and England was not protesting as much as he should. “I… to me, you aren’t England. You’re _England._ ”   
  
England frowned at him, and sighed. “Yes, I know. But…”  
  
“Does… it not matter, so long as my government does the things it does? Is that how we define um… er… us?”   
  
“I—”  
  
“England,” America said quietly, his eyes hooded in thought. “Things have happened like this before. The special relationship has been declared over, dead, gone… and who knows, maybe it has been gone. But even so, our treaties didn’t stop, trade kept flowing, nothing stopped and nothing disappeared. So it’s okay. But even if all that did disappear, it wouldn’t matter to me. I would still fly out to your house and argue with you over which version of The Office is better.”  
  
“Mine is,” England muttered.  
  
“Not on your life,” America said, and this time he did laugh, though it sounded slightly nervous. “But even if it ends, us being special… you’d still be important. We have too much history, England, even among our people, for any of that to actually disappear.”  
  
England inhaled sharply, closed his eyes and flopped forward, pressing his forehead against America’s shoulder. America didn’t move, just let England do that. England inhaled again.  
  
“You… bastard,” England decided. “Why do you always have to go and say things like this and make it damned impossible for me to hate you?”  
  
America laughed, a little loudly, possibly a little forced.  
  
“I hate you,” England decided, but the words lacked venom. He kept his head ducked, kept his expression hidden so America would not see it. He breathed in sharply and slumped further against America. America held onto him, and England did not protest it.   
  
“So…” America began, slow, a low drawl that almost sounded like one of his Southern accents but not quite. “Are you still angry at me?”   
  
England sighed. “Yes.”   
  
“Huh? Really?”   
  
England sighed again. He felt as if he still should be angry, still should be unhappy. Instead, the warmth in his chest was curling in his stomach again, as much as he wished it wouldn’t. Always, always like this—America so easily knocked down the defenses England put up, so easily slipped past all his walls and somehow coiled into his heart and squeezed (like a parasite, England thought, whenever he was angry. Or just like everything he’d ever wanted, when he was honest with himself).   
  
“You always… I hate it. You do this on purpose, make it hard for me to stay angry at you. That’s why I’m still angry.”   
  
“I’m a dick,” America said, lightly. He’d long since accepted it, and England wondered if he should be annoyed that America offered it as an excuse and as a matter of pride.  
  
“Yes,” England agreed with a roll of his eyes.  
  
“You are, too. Sometimes.”   
  
“Yes,” England agreed again.   
  
“Also, the newspaper?” America asked, picking up aforementioned newspaper. “It’s the Washington Post.”  
  
“So?” England asked.  
  
“So,” America said with a shrug. “Take what you will. It’s just one newspaper. Everyone says it has a bias—either too right or too left. So take it with a grain of salt, or whatever. Besides, you always get mad at me when I read The Sun.”  
  
“I do not—” England began and then shut his eyes and sighed through his teeth. “The Sun is a perfect piece of utter tripe. But I do not get angry about you reading my newspapers—heaven knows you would do well to read up on issues outside your own country.”  
  
“Yeah, yeah.”   
  
America shifted, sliding his arms underneath England’s backside and standing effortlessly, not even seeming to strain as he cradled England against his hips. England made a small noise of protest, but nevertheless wrapped his legs around America’s hips, simply because it was more comfortable that way. America seemingly took the lack of protest as a positive sign—when really, truly, England was just too tired to fight anymore, of course—and angled England to press him up against the wall, holding him aloft.   
  
“Can we make up now?” America asked.  
  
England sniffed. He sighed. “Fine, if we must.”   
  
America grinned from ear to ear, and his face flooded with relief—relief, England realized, that was probably mirrored in his own eyes. He sighed, looping his arms around America’s neck, cradling the back of the boy’s head and drawing him up, quickly. Their mouths pressed together, hungry, as if they’d been separated for longer than just a day.   
  
England pulled away, smothered the urge to smile, and said, quite seriously, “Make _up_ , not make out.”  
  
America grinned at him, looking positively star struck.   
  
“Put me down at once, this can’t be comfortable for you.” England looked away, cheeks red.   
  
“Hardly feel a thing,” America said with a wide grin, but set England down. But England didn’t seem keen on getting away from America, now that they had each other again. He pushed America up against the counter and America’s elbows slammed into a few spice containers, which rolled haphazardly across the counter consequently. “Whoa, Eng—”  
  
England took America’s mouth with his, kissing him with the full intent of kissing him senseless.   
  
“England,” America breathed when they pulled away, lips puffed from kissing, face slightly red and those damned blue eyes of his dazed.   
  
“I will fuck you right up against this countertop,” England promised.   
  
“Oh, I believe you, baby,” America said, still grinning, rather boyishly. America looked amused a second but then bit back a gasp as England swiveled his hips up against America’s, fully intending to do just that. “Well…” America breathed, “This is probably why your food always burns, isn’t it?”  
  
“You little bastard,” England growled.   
  
“Not that it matters—you’d always find a way to burn it,” America said, and England recognized that the boy was teasing him, trying to lighten the mood, trying to dispel everything that had saturated the air that day.   
  
“You—”  
  
“And I always eat it, don’t I?” America whispered.  
  
“… You do,” England said, then ducked his head, pressing up against America. He felt the other nation wrap his arms around England, cradling him up close, and it was so remarkable to be that close and yet feel so far away as he did. He refused to start crying. “Damned twit.”   
  
“How many showers are you planning on taking today, anyway?” America asked. “You know, if you actually do plan to do the nasty here? Not that I’m complaining, ya know.”   
  
“I’ve gone and used all your hot water. You’ll just have to clean me up instead.”   
  
This seemed to short-circuit America’s brain for a grand total of five gloriously silent seconds, in which England pushed his tongue into America’s mouth and re-explored what he’d memorized long before today and could remember perfectly each time.   
  
“Christ, I’ve missed you,” England breathed when they pulled away again.   
  
America laughed. “It’s not like we were away from each other for that long. Damn, all things considered this is probably the shortest fight we’ve ever had.”  
  
“It was an… overwhelming day. Your country is completely batty.” He leaned up, kissing America on the lips, feeling far too giddy about being able to do so again. “I’m quite certain I sent some poor woman to orgasm simply by speaking to her.”  
  
“We’re utterly charmed by your accent,” America said in a horrid attempt at a British accent, nibbling England’s bottom lip. He laughed, his breath breezing across England’s mouth and England swallowed that laughter, arching to take his mouth, dovetailing their tongues together and melting, sinking, falling. Always, always falling.   
  
England planted his hands on the counter, pressing up against America, aligning their bodies into perfect mirrors of each other as he kissed America, tried to tell him how much he loved and missed him—all the time, always—without ever having to say it. America responded, moaned quietly against England’s mouth. Life could be nothing but a joke, but England wouldn’t have cared, because he was lost, sinking—lost and loving everything, stuck in America’s trap and letting himself be so. A jar of nutmeg bumped against his hand and he brushed it aside, lifting a hand to tug at the bottom of America’s shirt, pressing his hand flushed against America’s chest, the lines and dips and curves of his body, everything he knew and loved and wanted to understand more than anything. They breathed words to each other, but still they could not understand each other, not truly, perhaps only for a moment—  
  
England undid the snap of America’s jeans, slipped his hand inside. America gasped, quietly, arching slightly when England’s warmed fingers cupped America, fingers strumming along the thick vein beneath the length of his cock, curling around the tip and stroking the base, already feeling it hardening beneath his touch. England watched America’s face, watched the eyes flicker and flutter behind the lenses, watched the way he moved his head slowly from side to side, watched the way the golden hair spilled over first one eye and then the other. In the unforgiving kitchen light, America’s cheek was already turning an ugly black color. England leaned in close, kissing the blooming bruise with gentle care. His fingers wrapped around America’s cock with less gentleness, pumping the quickly hardening erection with quick, diligent, dry fingers.   
  
“Mmf,” America grunted, face squeezing shut. England watched his face, memorizing the ticks and twitches in America’s young face. America chewed into his bottom lip whenever England’s fingers swirled around the sensitive head of his cock. America’s eyes squeezed shut tighter when England’s index finger traced the ridges of his cock downward. America gasped out, quietly, almost inaudibly, when his fingers curled around the base of his cock, stroked the slight jut of his pelvic bone.   
  
But England removed his hand, with a quiet moan of frustration and protest from the younger nation. England’s fingers danced over America’s pubic hair, over the curve of his belly, soft and smooth, tickled along his belly button, over the panting expanse of his chest, over the curve of his collarbone. It nestled, quite contently, over the lines of America’s throat, one finger pressed against the underside of America’s chin, forcing the boy’s head up slightly. America cracked his eyes open, staring at England with such longing that it nearly made England stop altogether.  
  
Instead, though, he gave the boy a low smile, taking a step back from America so that he was no longer pinned between England’s hips and the counter. His single finger remained outstretched, the rest curled. And then with the low smile morphing into an almost devilish smirk, England crooked his finger, beckoning the boy to him, with an unspoken promise.   
  
Then he turned on his heel and sauntered away, passing away through the kitchen, not even glancing at the cut aubergines and the lonely pot of tepid water. His hand curled, slowly, around the doorframe, slid up in an almost obscene matter as he glanced over his shoulder to see America staring at him in a dumbfounded away.   
  
“D… Does this mean you’ll stay?” America asked, voice thick with lust and desire.  
  
England smirked. “Perhaps you’ll convince me?”   
  
He darted out of the doorway, face pleasantly pink, and heard America scrambling after him, nearly crashing into the doorframe in his haste to chase England and not trip over his slackened pants. America caught up to him, wrapping an arm around England’s waist, leaning in to kiss England, but England ducked away, and couldn’t help but snort out the tiniest bark of a laugh at America’s properly scandalized expression. England curled closer, leaned up and bit at America’s jaw line then ducking away before America could pin him against the front door. They danced around each other, searching and falling, until they reached the bedroom when they fell together, America cushioning England’s fall and it was just as he wanted it, always—  
  
England crawled up over on top of America, swiveling his hips in a figure-eight fashion and sending America into keening whimpers, head thrown back and body arched. England thumbed at the buttons of his own shirt with utmost care, feeling both warm and relieved, so relieved—the way America smiled at him, encouraging, lips parted and panting—looking at only him, laughing for only him. He pulled America’s clothes off, tossed them aside and pulled back, standing over America’s supine form as he slowly pulled his own clothes off.   
  
America shifted, closer, trying to reach out and grab him but England just smiled, kneeling down in front of America, grasping his thighs and pulling him to the edge of the bed. He licked his lips, opened his mouth, and swallowed America, tongue laving at the underside of America’s cock. America, always loud, always so obnoxious, shouted some kind of obscenity and curled his fingers into England’s hair. Fearing that America would buck up and hurt him, England grasped his hips, gently, keeping him tethered to the bed. He sucked, licked, and swirled his tongue along the lines of America’s skin, watched a slight sheen of sweat drift over America’s forehead.   
  
America’s eyes were squeezed shut, but when he fluttered them open to look down at England, he found England looking up at him calmly, eyelids fluttering in time with each suck. America’s breath stopped completely as their eyes locked and England smirked around the head of America’s cock, which was somehow just too arousing for America. England continued to smile even as his eyes flickered back down to the task at hand, tilting his head slightly, shaking from side to side and making a corkscrew like movement over the length of America’s cock. America cried out for England, soft gasps, but he refused to plead—though it came damn near close to begging.  
  
“F-fuuuuck, England,” America moaned, fingers tight in England’s hair.   
  
England continued in such a fashion, sucking and licking at the length of America’s cock, cringing only once when America bucked up a bit too strongly before England could anchor him down. His eyes moved upwards, over America’s quivering body. He captured his eyes and held firm, refused to look away. America’s face was red, sweat dotting his temples, making his golden hair stick to his forehead (all but the stubborn flyaway of his), lips parted as he panted and tried to restrain quiet moans.   
  
He pulled away, wiping his mouth with the back of his mouth, eyes flickering. America moaned, quietly, eyes hooded.   
  
England stood up, leaned forward to press the hair away from America’s face. “Lube where it always is?”  
  
America nodded, breath hitching. “Wait.”   
  
England did so, one eyebrow raised, but America wasn’t looking at him anymore, instead at England’s hips. Once again, looking at the marks he’d left behind. England was about to speak, but America silently shifted closer. America’s fingers pressed up to the marks he’d left, aligning perfectly. America frowned.  
  
“I always leave bruises on you,” America breathed, and it wasn’t in his nature to sound regretful, guilty, but he did then.  
  
England gave him a quiet smile. “Isn’t that a ridiculously clichéd way of saying ‘You’re mine’? Leaving marks, that is.”  
  
America looked surprised a minute, then pulled his hands back, giving a slight smile—the tiniest twitch of one corner of his mouth. Then he rubbed at his cheek. “What does a punch to the face mean?”  
  
“It means, ‘You are fucking mine and if you run off with anyone else but me, I’ll kill you.’”   
  
America laughed, and looked delighted, thrilled, by the words. “Yeah. Yeah, that works.”  
  
England frowned, taken aback. “I really hadn’t expected you to agree.”  
  
“Am I not supposed to?”  
  
“No,” England said with a shake of his head, face red. “Just earlier I seem to recall a certain someone getting angry over being called ‘my dear.’ A certain someone seemed to declare that he didn’t belong to anyone.”   
  
America still looked guilty, and it was something England never tired of seeing, in some self-satisfied way. America bit his lower lip, then the inside of his cheek. His face turned bright red. “I… didn’t mean that. I was angry.”  
  
“Hm,” England grunted.   
  
“I… um… I like it. The names, I mean,” America decided, and cleared his throat. “Also, way to be totally possessive England, geez.”  
  
“You love it,” England muttered.  
  
“Maybe,” America said in a way that meant ‘yes, definitely.’ Then his shit-eating grin returned. “It’s cute.”  
  
“I _beg_ your pardon?”  
  
“It’s cute. Your names and possessiveness. Your little British pet names are adorable in your cute little accent. You’re sweet, England.”   
  
England seized the pillow and smashed it down on America’s face, fully intending to smother the idiot. America laughed and squirmed, but allowed himself to get knocked back by England, hands lifting to grab onto England’s back, nails digging into the skin idly—but in a way that would most certainly leave a mark.   
  
The older nation rolled his eyes heavenward and grew tired of America’s stupidity, tossing the pillow aside and squeezing himself over America, pulling open the drawer and pulling out the lube. America panted beneath him, from pleasure and from little tendrils of laughter that filtered into England’s ear. England scoffed, pulling back, standing again and squirting a liberal amount onto his hand and pressing his fingers into America, who arched and breathed sharply.   
  
“Oh,” America said, in a way that was more revelation than thinly veiled pleasure. England hooked his fingers, but America didn’t react, and when England looked up, he realized it was because America’s attention had been seized by the x-box controller laying haphazardly on the bed sheets.  
  
“You cannot be serious,” England growled out, disbelieving as America jiggled the controller a bit, pushing a few buttons. The game on screen, which had long since idled out, sprang back to life. “Put that down, you ridiculous twit.”  
  
“Aww, come on, England,” America said. “I’m almost done with this level—and if you can drink tea while I top you senselessly, why can’t I play video games when you’re topping me?”   
  
“Because that’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard,” England muttered and pushed another finger into America, spreading his fingers out and stretching America. America bit back a moan and arched slightly, but he was now trying to get his player to move, and eyeing his head set with enough contemplation to make England concerned.   
  
“Don’t be a party pooper.”  
  
“America,” England hissed, “The difference is that when I’m drinking tea, I’m still paying attention to you—attention whore that you are. I refuse to share your attentions now with pixels.”  
  
“Video games aren’t made from pixels, anymore, Engla— _aaah_ shit!” America cried out, abruptly, for then England shifted his fingers towards the spot he’d long since memorized, stroking until America gasped, loudly, and nearly dropped the controller, arching up and moaning, wantonly, as a reflex. England stroked America’s prostate until America was gasping.  
  
“Okay, okay, okay—G-god Englaaaand,” he moaned out. The controller fell to the floor, away from America’s lax fingers.   
  
“I thought so,” England said with a tiny smirk.  
  
“Shit,” America breathed, flopping back onto the bed, bones jelly.  
  
“How flexible are you again, darling?”   
  
“Flexible enough, you kinky bastard. What do you want?”   
  
“Up you go,” England whispered, slapping his free hand idly against America’s outer thigh. The leg popped up and England shifted forward until the leg draped over his shoulder, bent at the knee.   
  
“Dunno ‘bout the second one,” America admitted.  
  
“It’s fine, one should be enough for the angle,” England said absently, pulling his hand out from inside America and shifting closer. His clean hand stroked at America’s thigh, leaning his head to the side to kiss at the inner, sensitive skin. He shifted, to make America more comfortable, leaning in closer, propping one knee up on the bed as he shifted and pressed the head of his cock against America’s entrance.   
  
America shifted his other leg, unable to push up enough to get it over England’s other shoulder and instead wrapping around his waist, heel pressing into England’s lower back.   
  
“Get on with it, stud,” America teased when England paused.  
  
“Fuck off,” England swore, stroking lube over his cock before pushing into America and thus silencing the boy’s attitude and squashing that shit-eating grin of his.  
  
“Ooooh,” America breathed.   
  
“Will you last long, I wonder?” England asked with a low smile in the darkness.  
  
America didn’t answer right away, panting and squirming, pushing England in closer with the heel in the small of his back. He lifted his hands, pressing them against England’s chest, feeling the throbbing heartbeat beneath his fingertips.  
  
He nodded. “I’m… uh.”  
  
“You seemed about ready to finish just from my mouth.” He smirked, leaning in closer to kiss at America’s jaw. “Even now, we’ve only just started and is my touch too much?”   
  
“Ugh, fuck,” America breathed—he’d always been weak against England whenever he spoke with the low, throaty voice of his, darkened with lust and desire.   
  
“I suppose we’ll see how long you’ll last, my lovely,” England murmured, and then slammed his hips in and upwards, pushing into America, the angle just right enough to stroke his prostate again and sending America into another shout of pleasure. Not for the first time, England mourned for America’s neighbors as America panted and moaned for him.   
  
“England,” America whispered.  
  
England responded, pushing and pulling inside of America, relentlessly striking the spot that sent America arching and moaning. Fingers curled on England’s chest, his leg tensed. England continued to pound into America, keeping his touch gentle though knowing he wouldn’t hurt him.  
  
“You…” America began, but his words were lost as his mouth flopped open and he moaned out a soft hiss of pleasure.  
  
England pushed in, pushed up, curled closer. He kissed the corner of America’s lips, then brushed his lips softly over the bruise on his cheek. He mouthed along America’s jaw, pressed his mouth to America’s ear and breathed—he didn’t speak the words, only mouthed them—three little words, three little, earth-shattering words—and America tilted his head, eyes squeezed shut, mouth parted, his moan this time quiet, touched—everything.   
  
Everything.  
  
“England,” America whispered again.   
  
England kissed him, pressed their foreheads together. The touch was ginger, as he felt there must be a bruise there from America’s particularly vicious head butt. Their eyes opened, found each other’s.  
  
“You want to stay?” America asked, whispered, didn’t plead. “You… you want me, right?”   
  
England paused in his relentless pounding of America’s prostate, his hips slowing. There was a brief moment when nothing moved.  
  
But America stared at England. “You want me?”   
  
England’s heart throbbed and he knew that America must have felt it because the fingers on his chest spread and pressed closer, as if trying to absorb into England’s skin. England couldn’t speak, so he just nodded—the boy wanted to be needed, wanted it so desperately. Being left behind would be too much.  
  
Selfish, pig-headed, and stubborn. But damned if England didn’t love him so much. Damned if underneath all that stupid behavior of his, was a heart beating just as quickly as England’s. He couldn’t forget, wouldn’t forget. He couldn’t leave it behind.   
  
America wanted to be needed, wanted. England wanted him, perhaps didn’t need him—but wanted him there.  
  
“Keep going,” America reminded him.  
  
England resumed his pace, kept moving until he felt America tense up, cry out, felt the warmth of America’s seed splatter over both their chests. England watched America’s eyes fly open, watched him arch and squirm and writhe because of England, because he wanted England and loved England. _How—_  
  
America flopped, still writhing, panting, but his body was weak, fluid almost, and in England’s hold. England rode him, even after the burning of America’s climax had dulled to quiet embers. But England wasn’t long, and soon he felt his body freeze up, felt his body tighten, and then knew that he was filling America, and that America felt it, too, shivering as he was filled with warmth.   
  
He stayed very still after that, breathing, panting. But slowly he uncurled his hands, saw he’d left moon-shaped curved marks from his fingernails in America’s pale thigh. America groaned as his legs dropped back down to the mattress. England didn’t pull out of him, but he was soft now and it slipped out as he climbed up over America, settling himself down on his chest.  
  
“I wonder if there is any hot water left,” America mumbled against England’s hair.  
  
“Probably not,” England whispered, heart still pounding.  
  
“ _God_ I love make-up sex,” America declared, still looking rather floppy and happy. “You always fuck me straight into the mattress.”  
  
“Jesus,” England breathed, face red.  
  
“You always pick the weirdest times to get embarrassed,” America muttered. “You can argue with me while you’re naked in the shower, but if I comment on your sexual prowess you get all virginal on me.”   
  
“Blushing is hardly what I would call ‘virginal,’” England muttered with a roll of his eyes.   
  
“Ya know, if normal people were told they were a total stud in bed, they’d get all cocky—pun totally intended.”  
  
“Fool,” England muttered against America’s shoulder. God help him, how he loved him.   
  
“But then again,” America said, jumping around in the typical way he always spoke, “You did say that I’d be the one who would have to clean you up. I think I’m the dirtiest here.”  
  
England muttered more insults but America turned the other nation over onto his back, kissing down his chest and brushing his tongue over the skin, licking up his own cum from England’s chest. He smiled triumphantly as England’s heart pounded visibly in his chest. And it was a good thing it was so soon after their sex—twice in the same day—because otherwise America’s smile and swipes of his tongue would be speaking directly to his cock. America dragged his tongue, licking at England and kissing along spots that hadn’t gotten cum on them, but nevertheless inviting America’s affections. He mouthed against each bruise on England’s body—of which there were quite a few, though not all because of America.   
  
“Mmf,” America breathed, finally pulling away, hand rubbing idly at his own thigh, where England had left his marks. “You’re already dripping out of me, ya know.”  
  
England’s face was bright red but he gave a low smirk. “Shall I stuff you to keep it in?”  
  
“Nnf— _God_ , you kinky old bastard.”  
  
“I’m not old,” England protested and kept smiling even as America curled up to kiss England on the mouth and he could taste America on his lips and shivered, throwing his arms around America’s neck and drawing him close. He wrapped one leg around America, pressing their bodies close.  
  
“Kinky bastard, then,” America decided when they pulled apart.  
  
England accepted this—after all these years there was no way he could deny it to America, and it didn’t seem as if America was completely scandalized. Most likely England had spent all these years corrupting America from purely vanilla missionary sex to all kinds of shenanigans.   
  
England rolled away slightly, groping the floor until he grabbed America’s shirt. He sat up and pulled America up with him, drawing the tee-shirt over America’s head.  
  
“We’ll shower once the hot water tank has a chance to recharge,” England said, brushing his fingers over America’s naked thighs while pulling America’s underwear up for him.   
  
“Speaking of recharging,” America said, drawled again in that almost-but-not Southern accent of his, “Can we actually take a shower together this time?”   
  
England stared at him, then leaned down to fetch America’s trousers.  
  
“For purely ecological reasons, of course,” America said quite seriously.   
  
He swiveled his hips up for England as England dressed him, redoing the snap and zip and tightening the belt for him. Fully clothed now, America shifted, pushing England down with a gentle kiss and then moving to capture England’s briefs to pull it on for him.  
  
“I suppose,” England breathed as America mouthed along his neck, replacing England’s undergarments with practiced ease before leaning away to grab England’s trousers and pulling them on for him. The hands lingered on his hips as he kissed at England’s forehead, over the bridge of his nose, and then capturing his mouth gently.   
  
“Great,” America chirped, helping England shrug into his shirt. “That means I can finish my game.”  
  
“I—what?” England asked but, now both fully clothed at each other’s hands, America was back to business. He rolled away, recaptured his headset and his controller and set about finishing the level.  
  
England stared at him, perfectly deadpan. America didn’t notice, headset already on, bulb of the microphone pressed into his dirty little mouth, and hands fiddling and playing with the controller. There was nothing sexual about America playing his x-box but damn if it wasn’t hot. Let it never be said that England had an unhealthy libido.   
  
England sighed, irritably, and leaned back against the pillows by America’s side. He watched America play, watching his profile. England couldn’t complain too much, as he did feel fully sated and, for the most part, reassured about their own personal relationship. He watched America for a long moment, amused silently (and never to be admitted to America) by America’s obscenities he shouted into the microphone. There was a moment when America looked ready to chuck the controller across the room in anger, to which England felt morally inclined to knead the back of America’s neck. America seemed to appreciate this immensely and melted slightly, but still didn’t pull away from his game.  
  
The older nation sighed. England shifted closer, shimmying up to America’s side, wrapping his arms around America. This was an awkward feat as America seemed rather intent on not pausing his stupid game to give England any attention while they were _making up_ but England bitterly figured this was part of his charm.   
  
England rested his cheek on America’s thigh, and they both watched the game for a long moment, America clicking away and England’s thoughts drifting when the game failed to capture his interest. But his fingers kneaded at America’s thigh, and his feelings of distress just a few hours ago at the bus stop seemed centuries away, though the acute feelings of pain still throbbed dully in his heart, a reminder of insecurities. He focused on the smell of America, the way he felt so at ease with him, how America wanted him just as much as England wanted him.  
  
America’s game filtered to a cut scene now, and because of it, England felt a hand card through his hair, brushing it silently and intently. England closed his eyes, humming his appreciation. They stayed like that for a while, even after the cut scene ended, which resulted in America’s ridiculous attempts to play with one hand. The movement of America’s player on the screen was awkward and endearing.   
  
“America?” England asked quietly.   
  
“Yeah?” he heard the voice above him, though England kept his gaze on America’s knee. He could feel the fingers in his hair pause.  
  
England sighed and rolled over, staring up at the nation above him. He kept his head in his lap before lifting his hand and touching the boy’s cheek, pushing the microphone for his game’s headset up out of his face. He traced his jaw.  
  
“Soon, in the future… I don’t know how it’ll happen or if it’ll happen, but my people will want to be away from you. Because it’s…”  
  
“Not equal,” America agreed. “I know.”   
  
England didn’t say anything.   
  
“I think that,” America said, not looking at England. “I think that in the end it might be better, if the Special Relationship does end.”  
  
England stiffened up.  
  
America was quick to backtrack. “Not because I want us to break up—but because then… then maybe we could be more equal, our governments. Maybe then I’ll stop being a bastard and taking advantage of you, burdening you… Um. Making you suffer.”   
  
England frowned. “Yes… perhaps.”  
  
“We could become enemies,” America said, quite seriously, “And it wouldn’t matter.”  
  
England didn’t speak, didn’t mention the time when they _had_ been enemies, the times when America had declared that he hated England, that he didn’t care about England and never would again. The fingers in his hair were a reminder that things were different now—that America loved England. That America wanted England, and England wanted him in turn.  
  
America finally paused his game and took off his headset. He looked down at England and shifted, bringing England up to his eyelevel. He cupped England’s face, staring at him, face reserved. England swallowed.  
  
“I know what you’re going to say, England.”  
  
“What am I going to say?” England asked.  
  
“That no matter what our governments do, it doesn’t change how _you_ feel for _me._ ”  
  
England lowered his eyes, not confirming or denying America’s words.   
  
America leaned down, squinting up at England to capture his eyes. He smiled. “And for the record? I lied this morning. You do give good head.”   
  
“I—shut the fuck up,” England barked, face bright red.  
  
America laughed.   
  
“Idiot,” England muttered, embarrassed, looking away.   
  
“But… yeah. It’s the same for me.”  
  
“What?” England choked. “That you give good—”  
  
“I meant,” America cut him off, face red. “That I’m not just my government.”  
  
“… Right. I know.”  
  
“What this is,” America said slowly, blushing, unused to such intimacy—sex he could handle, feelings not as adequately—“It isn’t based on something like that—it isn’t based on politics.”   
  
“I know,” England breathed. He told himself he knew, didn’t let the doubts linger in his heart, as much as they tried.   
  
“We both gotta do what’s best for our countries, and if that means you focusing on Europe and me focusing on, I dunno, Russia, then that’s what we gotta do. But even if that’s the case… what’s best for _me_ is being with you.”  
  
“America…”   
  
“And plus,” America said, looking embarrassed now and blushing furiously. “If you aren’t around to use the electric kettle I totally would have wasted my money on the fucking shipping and handling.”   
  
America looked as if he was about ready to keep talking, to start rambling, so England cupped his face and kissed him—and that seemed to satisfy America just fine.   
  
“No matter what happens, this is how I feel about you,” America said once they pulled apart, then felt he’d said too much and looked away, blushing furiously.   
  
England felt himself smile, despite himself.   
  
“You know, if you feel this way I haven’t a clue why you were so upset earlier today.”  
  
America blushed. “I… I’m still learning too, or something. Shut up.”   
  
“America,” England whispered, hand touching his bruised cheek. “I always want you—don’t forget that.”  
  
“… I don’t forget,” America said, then cleared his throat. “Er, I mean. I won’t forget.”   
  
“Well, then…” England whispered, sitting up. “How about that shower?”   
  
“… Kay,” America breathed and let England drag him to the bathroom by his shirt collar.   
  
Their day ended as they always tended to—together, asleep, holding one another.


End file.
